


My Man

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Typical Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 10 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.~~~Happy Birthday, Peter Stark!
Relationships: BASICALLY EVERYBODY/EVERYBODY - Relationship, Bucky Barnes/Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes
Series: Roaring Hot [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 605
Kudos: 448





	1. The Color Green

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts. As always, any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse, although it sure SEEMS like everything is getting better, doesn't it?).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

Harley slides into the library on quiet feet, but he’s not quiet enough, Peter can hear him. He sighs and marks the spot in his book, sharing a short, sharp look of frustration with Steve. “How can I help you, Harley?” he asks, politely.

Harley kicks at the lion’s-paw foot of the couch that Peter is sitting on, scowling. “Don’t be like that, Angel,” he whines.

“Like what, Harley? Amenable?” sighs Peter. He’s particularly proud of the new word. It means, _willing to listen_. Phil had said yesterday that the Virginia mine would be _amenable_ to a renegotiation of the union trade laborer’s base salary.

“Cold like that,” grunts Harley, glancing up at Peter through his eyelashes. Peter feels a little thrill as he realizes Harley probably doesn’t know what amenable even means, and it twitches his lips upward, looking up at the young man standing beside him shifting on his feet with his shirtsleeves already rolled up in the August heat. It’s not even noon- early for Harley to be up, earlier yet for him to be so hot he’s rumpled. 

Harley glares at Steve and says, “Can a guy get a word with his brother around here?”

Steve shrugs his shoulders, serene, and says, “Last time I let him outta my sight, he got snatched. You think I’m looking to botch this job anytime soon?” Peter snorts and Steve smiles, just a little, looking Harley up and down. “‘Sides, you keeping secrets these days?”

Harley blows out a breath and says, finally, “Look, willya come up to the room, Angel? Please?”

“Please,” repeats Peter, eyebrows flying up. He looks over at Steve, who has a similar look of exaggerated shock on his face.

“I ain’t drunk,” Harley says shortly. “I ain’t touched anything last night, neither, got ‘Tasha and Clint as witness, if you need ‘em.” He scowls, and kicks again, and then shoots Peter a dark look full of mixed emotions and adds, “Please.”

“Man sounds serious,” says Steve faintly, his lips twisting just as faintly into a smile behind Harley’s back. 

Peter squints up at Harley and nods. “Okay, sure, Harley.”

Harley sighs almost silently, but some of the tension leaks out of his frame as Peter stands and puts the book back on the side table. Steve quietly arranges his things as well, ready to leave before Peter is done collecting his tie from the back of the couch and shoving it in a pocket. He’s barefoot, and he intends to _stay_ barefoot, so he grabs the boots he wore up to the range by the laces and nods for Harley to lead the way.

“Sober for most of a full day,” mutters Steve to Peter’s back, as Peter trails behind Harley. 

Peter snorts, but nods. It’s _something_ , anyway.

When he gets to the room, all signs of yesterday have been soothed away- likely by Karen, if Peter had to guess. The beds are made neatly, so there’s no way to tell if Harley spent the night tossing and turning or not at this point. The window’s still missing a pane of glass, but it’s been covered with wax paper and tape for now, and that’ll have to do, Peter supposes. 

Harley whirls when they’re in the suite and advances on Peter, causing Peter to freeze. Steve bumps into him and then pushes him forward, closing the door behind him. 

Harley snarls, “I don’t know what else to even _do_ , Angel.” He gestures around the room, sliding in even closer to Peter, his chin ducked a little. “You been so cold, I don’t- I said I was sorry!”

“Sarge’s been telling you for years sorry don’t fix broken, Harley,” sighs Steve, pushing past them both to go sit in the blue armchair, resting his head on his hand as he considers them.

Peter’s brain is racing, but his heart is beating strangely slow, contemplating Harley’s downcast face. Harley scowls, not at Steve or Peter, just, Peter thinks, in general. Just a general kind of scowl, cranky and angry and… just generally put upon. Well. _Good_. Bully for Harley. Peter frowns at him and says, “I don’t know what you want from me, Harley. You’re the one came in here and busted everything- and made it so I don’t want to be here.”

“You _gotta_ -” begins Harley in an anguished whisper but Peter frowns at him more sharply and says, as shortly and coldly as he can, “Or _what_ , brother? You gonna _make_ me? What’s your plan for _making_ me forget?”

“He’s got you there,” sighs Steve, as Harley rocks back, mind clearly racing, hands clenching and unclenching at his side.

Bucky busts into the room already grumbling, “Goddamnit, Hellcat,” before pulling up short and glaring at Peter and then Steve. “Gang’s all here, huh?” he spits. “Good. Let’s have it out, then, Angel, I’ve had about enough of Hellcat moping and raging and sulking as I can handle.”

“There’s nothing to have out,” Peter informs him shortly. “I’m not-”

Bucky grabs his arm and shakes him roughly. “And I’m done playing,” he growls lowly, the sound rolling through the room. Steve sits forward but makes no further move to intervene. Peter feels his heart flutter, his palms start to sweat as he looks back at Bucky, shocked into silence.

“Yeah,” says Bucky slowly. “Look at me.” His eyes are narrowed at Peter, piercing, and they are not amused by what they see there. Peter’s uncomfortably aware of how many muscles back up the tight grip on his arm- the man towers with streamlined bulk even when he’s not all that tall. “I’ve had enough of this fit, Angel, and so we’re gonna end it now, by talking, or I’m gonna end it in a minute, my way.”

“But he-” whispers Peter, pulling back just a bit to see if Bucky will release his arm. Bucky’s teeth flash as he snarls, “I don’t care. Try me, boy.” He gives Peter’s arm another warning shake.

Peter can hear the blood rushing through his veins, or at least, he thinks he can hear it. This is not fair, he thinks. It’s not fair that _he’s_ the one in trouble with Bucky when it wasn’t _him_ that did anything. He glances over at Steve for support and he knows some of the fear he feels is showing on his face, just a little, it must be. Steve sits back, though, instead of rushing forward, Steve _sits back_ and opens his hands palm up in front of him, like he’s letting go of a leash.

Peter glances back at Bucky, eyes skittering past Harley because he doesn’t want to see the look on the man’s face, knowing it’s probably smug, no doubt.

Bucky’s teeth flash again in a snarl as he says, “So siddown on the couch, right here, and I’ll sit next to you, and Harley, you can get close and we can all have a nice little talk about how we’re all gonna live together happily ever after, you hear me?”

Harley snorts but when Bucky drops Peter’s arm, shoving Peter to start moving towards the couch and taking a step towards Harley, Harley mutters, “Yes, sir, please, I been _trying_ to talk to him, Buck, you _seen_ me.”

“Yeah, you been trying to push him around,” says Bucky bluntly. “Because you ain’t got the braincells to use your charm on anything other than coaxing the next skirt to flip up for you. Try applying it here and now, might actually be good for something.”

Peter flops onto the end of the couch, as far from Bucky and Harley as he can get and mutters, “Don’t want him to charm me.”

“You shut up about what you want and don’t want, right now, Angel,” snaps Bucky, shoving Harley over to the sitting space and pushing past him to sit on the couch, radiating menace as he grabs Peter’s jaw and shakes it. “I’m sick of it. People in Hell want ice water. Everyone wants something, Angel, and we’re none of us getting everything we want. I sure as Hell don’t want to be here helping you two kiss and make up, you think that’s what the Boss is paying me for? But here we are.”

Peter can feel tears spring to his eyes because it’s not _fair_ , and Bucky mutters, “Christ, and now the waterworks. Well, coulda called that. Damn crocodile tears.” He blows out a breath and releases Peter’s jaw. Peter sneaks a hand up and rubs at it, glaring at the marble tabletop in front of them. Harley slips past Bucky’s legs and sits on the floor, in between Bucky and Peter, facing them. He lifts up his chin, trying to catch Peter’s eye, and Peter shifts to glower at the closet door across the room.

“Bound to be fights, two people sharing space,” says Steve into the long silence. “Even the Sarge and me get into ‘em, time to time.”  
  
“Like to see you throw a priss fit like this,” sniffs Bucky, cracking his knuckles and turning his head to glower at Steve. Peter glances at Steve’s face, open and honest and concerned, and feels his lips start to tremble.  
  
Finally, as the silence descends again, Peter blurts out, “It’s not a _fit_! I’m allowed to be mad-” He catches Harley’s wince out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re allowed exactly as much as we allow you,” interrupts Bucky, shaking a finger at him, “and I already said I was done with it. I ain’t saying it again. Harley took his tanning for breaking the window and acting a fool the other night, he apologized, I was standing right here to hear it, but clearly you don’t think that’s enough, so: Start. Talking.”

Peter’s heart is going to hammer out of his chest and he can’t hold back the hot, angry tears no matter how much he tries to sniff them back. He wipes them away angrily and glares at the table just over Harley’s left shoulder. “He broke my stuff.”

“And I heard him offer to get you new stuff,” says Bucky bluntly. “And you didn’t have stuff just four months ago when he pulled you outta that dump, so you owe him for that _stuff_ anyway. Try again.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” whispers Peter. Why can’t Bucky or Harley see that? It’s not about the stuff, in the end, it’s about how Harley came in here and just- just destroyed everything and then acted like Peter was- was supposed to just ignore it and be okay with it.

“I said I was sorry, I already- I got the books, I put ‘em back in the library and I ordered more cologne, and I’m _sorry_ about the watch,” babbles Harley, his face screwed up with anger but his voice- Peter slides his eyes over and is shocked to see tears in Harley’s eyes as he looks up at Peter. “I just got so damned mad, I was outta my head with drink, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Yeah,” huffs Peter, wiping at his eyes with the side of his hand. “Yeah, I know, so I’m supposed to say, ‘Oh, poor Harley, his drunk self is just a dumb angry goon, I forgive you, Harley,’ for sayin’ all that stuff and throwing my things outta the window when you got mad _for no reason_.”

“Wasn’t for no reason,” puts in Steve slowly. Peter’s gaze flies up to him, mouth opening in betrayal, but Steve’s eyes are uncompromising as he continues, “just wasn’t for a reason you can understand, Angel. You ain’t been where Harley’s been, ain’t seen the things he’s seen.”

Harley flinches at this and then grumbles, “It was just the drink, Angel.”

“It wasn’t,” corrects Steve. “You came home, already looking for a fight, ‘Tasha said there was the skirt at Little Blessings who tossed you over for Johnny. And then you came up here and Peter was-”

“-just reading!” bursts out Peter. “I was just _reading_ , Harley.” His voice chokes off abruptly and he breathes slowly, because if he starts sobbing Bucky’s just gonna get mad.

“Well, I don’t like it, don’t like how you’re all the time reading, ‘stead of- of-” stutters Harley in a resentful tone.

“‘Stead of _what?”_ asks Peter in exasperation. “Sucking on you?”

Bucky slaps the back of his head hard and when Peter whirls to look at him, his face is lean and angrier than Peter’s ever seen it. “You _listen_ to him, Angel, and that’s enough of the bull. Ain’t hearing those words outta you again.”

There’s a pause, while Peter shakes his head and rubs at the point of contact, trying to get his breathing under control and not looking at anyone. Harley gulps, too, and his voice is subdued as he says, “‘Stead of spending time, like we- like-”

“I got _work_ ,” hisses Peter, ignoring the small trickle of guilt that slides around his anger. “I’m helping Pepper and working on projects in the workshop and practicing with Clint and I got _work_ , Harley. And when I’m done with work, I like to _read_. Helps me relax.” 

“I work, too,” protests Harley angrily, kicking at the couch with the toe of his boots. “And Pepper was talking about that damn McGuffy Reader and Tony said if I didn’t get through it by Christmas I could kiss my theater goodbye and I only got maybe a week of summer left and you’re busy all the time, when I got time.”

Peter feels a sinking feeling is his chest, as Harley’s voice goes a little forlorn. It pulls the anger down, some, and makes him feel even worse.

“I got you to be a _brother_ ,” mutters Harley, pushing against the couch with both feet, pressing his back into the coffee table, glaring straight ahead. “Don’t even see you unless ‘m drunk.”

Steve and Bucky both make little noises at this- too fast for Peter to identify if they’re sad or sympathetic, or something else, especially with all of his attention concentrated on Harley. Harley, who scrubs his face with a hand and glares some more, falling silent. 

“You ignored me for weeks, with them chariots,” Peter points out, but it’s a feeble effort, and he knows it.

“I did not,” says Harley hotly, glaring up at Peter. “Spent plenty of time with you.” Peter remembers the hot night, the cool sheets, and feels his cheeks flush.

“Yeah,” grunts Harley. “And now you and Tony’re all in the workshop, and you and Pepper are always in the middle of a contract, and I only get- I only see you at night, after _my_ work, and _I was drunk_ so it got a little- I mean- I shouldn’t have said, and the books- the watch- but- but-” he shakes his head, voice choked off, and Peter leans forward just an inch. 

Steve says, slowly, “What I hear is Harley knows he shouldn’t have gotten so mad, he’s trying to make up for the things he threw out the window. He can’t go back in time and fix the scare, Peter, or the words he said when he was mad and looking to take it out on something.”

Peter shakes his head and says, a little uncertainly, “But sorry don’t fix everything. You- you said-”

“I don’t remember what I said,” mutters Harley, “But I didn’t mean _any_ of it. I was just mad and drunk and I been telling you, I just-”

“Just what?” asks Peter, the anger coming back as he vividly remembers the words Harley had flung at him. “Just thought it was okay to shout all that stuff until Tony came in and-”

“It’s not okay!” shouts Harley. “I never said it was okay! I never said, ‘hey, what I did, that’s what shoulda happened!’ I never said that! Stop acting like I’m trying to say it was okay! I said I’m sorry, I said I’ll try to fix what I can! I don’t know what else to do!” Peter’s chest isn’t the only one heaving with the force of the emotions. Steve quickly shifts spots to perch on the table and put a hand on Harley’s shoulder, rubbing just a little.

“Peter, Angel,” says Steve sternly, looking at him. Peter shrinks back against the couch and nods, once, in a show of willingness. Of- of amenability. “Do you think Harley meant a single one of the things he said?”

Peter shakes his head dumbly, a lump choking off his words. “He- he called me-” he says in a faltering voice. “He said I was-”

“I heard it,” agrees Steve. “You told me yesterday. Do you think he means it? Does he treat you like he thinks that? Does _this_ look like he thinks that about you?”

Peter swallows once and whispers, “No, sir.”

“No. And you know that,” says Steve firmly, rubbing Harley’s shoulder again. “So I think Bucky’s right. Time to call a fit a fit. You’re throwing one, and you need to stop it. It’s hurting Harley, and pissing off everyone who has to deal with Harley.”

“He-he threw my-” starts Peter, because it’s not _fair_.

“And I whupped him for it, Angel, what more do you _want_?” growls Bucky, turning to face Peter abruptly. Peter recoils, his eyes flying up to Bucky’s face in fear and anticipation. “He ain’t going to go throwing things outta busted windows anytime soon. You said you know he didn’t mean any of the things he said. He’s done nothing but show you he’s sorry. What more could you possibly want from him? Help me out here, because if I gotta watch him do handstands around you another two hours, I’m going to lose my mind, Angel. What more is it that you want?”

“I- I don’t-” stutters Peter, his heart clenching. He _wants_ to stay mad, is what he _wants_. He wants- he wants to stay mad and stay- he wants everyone to be mad at _Harley_ for once. Everyone had been so quick to just, just- patch up the window, but Harley had said all those things and thrown Peter’s things out the window and he doesn’t- he doesn’t want to be done being _mad_.

Steve slides his legs over the table top and drops them to the floor beside Harley, directly in front of Peter. He cups Peter’s chin in his big hands and tugs, until Peter is right at the edge of the couch, perched there precariously. Another tug and he’ll be off of it. He tilts Peter’s face up to his wordlessly and then nods seriously. “This _is_ a fit. I didn’t see it, thought maybe you were taking time to cool down, but you’re holding onto this mad outta pure _spite_ , ain’t ya? Well, we’re not having a spiteful Angel, not around here. Tony’s set on spoiling you, has been ever since that damn goon grabbed ya, and everyone’s been on tiptoes, trying to help you feel safe and home. Well, Bucky’s hit the nail on the head. This is just a fit, and we’re done, Angel. _I’m_ done.”

Peter shakes his head to protest, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him that even _he_ thinks Steve’s probably right. 

“He has every right to be mad,” grumbles Harley unexpectedly. “I threw his books, and that cologne Tony gave him, and the watch Pepper bought. And I don’t know what all I called him, but I know me, when I’m drunk, and it was bound to be- I mean-”

Peter’s heart clenches, hearing Harley defend his right to be mad, and he looks up into Steve’s eyes and nods. Just a little jerk of his chin, his eyes already filling with tears that are gonna spill over and piss Bucky off, but it’s enough of a signal for Steve’s lips to press tightly and for him to state firmly, “And Angel knows you’re sorry, and you took your beating for breaking things and throwing things, and he’s done being stubborn, now. Right now, you hear me, Peter?”

Peter nods again and gasps. Steve releases his chin and Peter hovers for a second, pulling back just a little, because Bucky shifts on the couch and grunts, “We clear, now? Angel, you got anything you want to say?”

“J-just that I was mad, I _was_ mad, Harley,” he stutters, wiping his tears because it’s not fair, it really isn’t, but it’s also not fair to Harley not to hear him out, either. “I was scared when you were doing it, and I was mad, and-and-”

“And now we’ll work on having a better day today,” says Steve firmly.

Peter sobs, just once, because that does sound, uh, good. Better than yesterday, anyway, when he’d been so mad and hurt and _mad_ at Harley. Better than this morning, when he’d barely been able to eat and Pepper’s kind concern had made it all worse, somehow.

Bucky leans forward and says, “Harley, you think of anything you can do to help Peter have a better day today?”

Peter stills, watching from the corner of his eye as Harley stills, too. Peter shoots a glance up at Steve. Steve’s face creases into a very slow, very small smile. Peter shakes his head and Steve’s smile gets a little broader. “Yeah, Hellcat,” says Steve casually, laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Got any tricks for helping a man feel in a more forgiving mood?”

Harley huffs a laugh and scrubs at his face. Peter’s eyes fly to his, shocked, because- because he’d been so mad, Harley _can’t-_ they can’t expect Harley to- that’s not how- His eyes are pinned to Harley’s face so he doesn’t miss anything as the man’s expression changes, as he locks eyes on Peter. Harley’s eyes are rueful as they give an exaggerated roll. “Aw, y’all just missed the show,” he complains, shifting, his eyes still on Peter’s face, still watching for who-knows-what.

“We did,” confirms Bucky, shifting along the couch, his ankle pressing against Harley’s ankle. “That’s about the only reason I can think of to help you two patch anything up. All about what I get to see afterwards.”

Peter looks at Harley, his heart in his throat and thinks, _no, Harley, we don’t- we don’t have to-_

Harley looks back at him and shrugs just a little, lips twisting in a weird smile. “Well, you know what they say about kissin’ and makin’ up.”

“That’s the spirit,” chuckles Bucky, as Harley levers himself up to his knees a little awkwardly, Steve’s hand falling from his shoulder to help him shift. 

“Don’t want to be uninvited to the birthday party,” Steve teases Harley, sliding a hand under the man’s suspenders and trailing it down his back, snapping the suspenders near the base of Harley’s spine. 

Harley grumbles and shifts, looking up at Peter. There’s something tentative in his eyes, tentative and bright, as he tilts his head up. “You gonna forgive me?” he asks Peter.

Peter can feel all of the mad leave him with an almost palpable sensation as he’s overcome with a slight feeling of dread, thinking _no, Harley, we don’t have to, we don’t- they can’t- you don’t have to._ He looks down at Harley, who smirks back up at him, but there’s something tentative and guarded in his eyes. Something that makes the familiar smirk seem- off. Wrong. A lie. Peter draws in a shaky breath and Bucky chuckles, “Nervous Angel. You don’t gotta do anything, you know. Harley’s the one owes you, and he does give such sweet apologies, on his knees like that, after he’s been dumb.”

“Messed up again,” agrees Harley, sliding his hands along Peter’s thighs, his head still tilted up, eyes still fixed on Peter’s. “You gonna help me show ‘em I mean my _sorry_ , brother?” he says softly, the smirk fading into a quirky grin that is much more Harley, the Harley Peter sees at midnight some nights. 

Peter stutters, “Y-you don’t gotta- I don’t- _Harley_ -” but the other three men chuckle and he snaps his mouth shut, confused.  
  
“Look at all these roses,” teases Bucky, trailing fingers along Peter’s cheekbones, his neck. “Just blooming everywhere.”

“I d-don’t-” Peter tries to tell Harley, but Harley shoves up suddenly and captures Peter’s lips in a kiss. 

“Don’t what, Angelbaby,” breathes Harley into the kiss. He trails the kiss sloppily to the corner of Peter’s mouth and then down to Peter’s chin, kissing and licking a path to Peter’s ear, making Peter gasp.

Peter writhes, because his body is responding but he’s- he’s pretty sure this isn’t what Harley _wants_ \- he’s pretty sure this is _wrong_. Something about this makes his heart pound and it’s not like kisses at midnight, there’s something here, something not right. Harley whispers in his ear, “Shhh, ‘sall right. Go ahead, don’t mind ‘em,” before kissing down Peter’s throat, sucking a little on his path.

Peter can feel Bucky’s eyes hot on his face, so he closes his eyes. It’s not- it’s not right, it’s not- Harley shouldn’t- Peter should tell them stop, tell them all stop, he should _shout_ it, he’s _going_ to-

Bucky chuckles as Harley’s hands slide across Peter’s thighs, scrabbling a little at Peter’s slacks, “I knew it was gonna be more work, havin’ two of ‘em around. But you ever seen anything more right than our Cat on his knees apologizin’ to the Angel?”

“Angel looks like he’s gonna bust a gear,” observes Steve in a warm voice. Peter cracks his eyes just a little, and watches Steve rub Harley’s shoulders with both of his big hands, small, soothing little motions, as Harley kisses his way down Peter’s shirtfront, his hands clumsily undoing the buttons. “Go slow, Hellcat. You know Angel can’t last long.”

Peter shifts a little and Bucky says, “Aww, way Angel’s perched, looks uncomfortable,” and that’s all the warning Peter gets before Bucky slides behind him on the couch, in one smooth move, his thighs on either side of Peter’s, his crotch pressed tightly against Peter’s back. He wraps his arms around Peter’s chest and pulls Peter back, grunting, “Lean back, relax a little. Harley’s saying sorry the only way he really knows how.”

But that’s _not true_ , thinks Peter wildly. Because Harley’s been saying sorry- he even said sorry as soon as Tony busted in, had looked at the ball glove in his hands and dropped it and slurred, “S’rry, Petey- s’rry, don’ don’ know what I-” before Tony had started shouting about the broken glass and stalked over to punch him. Before Bucky and Steve had arrived, Steve hustling Peter out of the room. Harley’d been saying sorry since that moment- trying to tell Peter, trying to show Peter. 

But Peter’d been so mad, about the books, about the stupid things Harley’d said- _you’re a mistake, shoulda left you there, might throw you back anyway , no one'll miss you or the trouble you bring around this place_ \- about the cologne Tony’d just given him earlier that night, that he’d never even gotten a chance to wear out. About a whole month, since the kidnapping, with Harley hovering, wanting his time and attention, everyone wanting something from Peter, and then this- drunken Harley, raging about Peter staying up to read books, ripping the book- tearing the _page_ Peter’d been about to turn. He’d been so damn mad, and now here they are, and this isn’t the only way Harley knows how to say sorry, he’s been _saying_ it for a whole day now.

But Peter was too stubborn mad to listen.

So now Bucky’s arms are wrapped around him, holding him, teasing about how Harley doesn’t know any other way to say sorry. That’s not right, it’s not- Peter pushes forward, just a little, and Bucky grips him tightly, showing off the muscle that he carries with him everywhere he goes. A sliver of fear slides down Peter’s spine as Bucky murmurs quietly in his ear, “Enough of that, little Angel. Stay still. Be good.”   
  
Peter’s eyes fly open, he can’t help it, to look across at Steve, pleading. Steve’s lips quirk as he continues to rub Harley’s shoulders absently. “Coulda made up anytime in the privacy of this room without us, Angel,” he reminds Peter gently. He glances down, over Harley’s shoulder, and his lips curve just a little. “Look at that pecker, always a little bit of a shock, Buck. You do good work.”

“Smooth,” says Bucky, and one of his hands slides down Peter’s shirtfront to rub the skin beside Peter’s dick. “Still not sure why the Boss had the thought, but, hell, I like it, too. If the Angel starts getting scrub anywhere, I’m willing to take a blade to it.”

“What, on his chest?” asks Harley, pausing, clearly distracted. He looks up at Bucky with a quizzical frown. “I don’t know- I mean- that’s a little-”

“Saw a eunuch once,” comments Steve. “Smooth as a baby everywhere, craziest thing.”

“A what?” asks Harley, twisting to look up at Steve.

“Eunuch. It’s when a man, when he’s young, he’s gelded, like a horse,” Steve informs him, eyes twinkling at Peter’s shocked gaze darting up to his face. 

“Ew,” drawls Harley, shifting back to face Peter, considering Peter’s length with a slight frown that makes Peter want to cover himself, “And he was hairless like this?”

“Just like it,” Steve says. “Although, well, I didn’t see his pecker,” he admits.

“Could he get it up?” asks Bucky, his voice threaded with a little horror, as his hand starts rubbing up and down Peter’s length, making Peter moan and jerk in his hold.

“I don’t know,” laughs Steve. “Probably? They used to make ‘em that way for the Sultan’s ladies, to keep ‘em happy but make sure they couldn’t get plowed with anyone but the Sultan’s kid.”

“Wow,” says Harley, sounding mystified. “I mean, that’s crazy. Can you just imagine-”

“What’s crazy is how I’m having to imagine how your apology would go, because you ain’t started it,” growls Bucky, the arm wrapped across Peter’s chest reaching out to smack Harley on the head.

“Oh,” giggles Harley, and the smile he slants Bucky is pure Harley mischief. “Oops. Yeah. Ain’t my fault, it’s _your_ Captain started telling tales about Aladdin.”

“Scheherezade will now shut up, thanks,” growls Bucky, “and let the Cat get to work.” Steve grins unapologetically at Peter and presses Harley forward just a bit.

Peter wants to shake his head and say, _no, no, it’s okay, keep talking,_ but Harley’s mouth descends on him like a wet brand and he grunts in surprise instead, eyes fluttering shut at the sheer amount of sensation Harley always- when he- how it always _feels_.

“Good kitty,” coos Bucky, switching the hand from Peter’s dick to Harley’s hair, gripping tightly. Harley grunts and then moans, struggling to slide his lips down as Bucky gives jerky upwards tugs to his mop of hair while crooning, “There you go. Say your sorries nice and sweet.” 

Bucky’s other arm wraps against Peter’s chest and pulls him tightly back to Bucky. “Loosen up, Angel,” he grunts lowly, by Peter’s ear, “and get used to it, Harley’s always messing up, gotta temper on him. Won’t be the last time he’s on his knees provin’ he’s sorry to you.”

Harley makes a muffled noise of agreement, and Bucky releases his hair to smack his head, instead, before grabbing his hair again in a tighter hold. “Suck, Cat, show him you mean business.”

“Nah,” says Steve, leaning down, putting his mouth next to Harley’s ear, his eyes looking up at Peter’s with a familiar intensity. “Go slow. Angel ain’t much of a show, if you ain’t slow and sweet. He goes too fast, off like a shot, he ain’t got any kind of stamina.” Peter’s eyes flutter closed at the mild censure, shocked. He opens them to meet the teasing glint in Steve’s eyes. “My Bucky wants a show.”

Harley bobs his head in a kind of a nod, and Peter groans, because his tongue- his tongue is pressing, slow languid licks, pulsing against- and the way his lips tighten as they slide, up and down, up and- it’s so much. It’s so so much. And Harley- Peter has to keep reminding himself- Harley didn’t even _want_ , not really, but they made him- and so they _shouldn’t_ , Peter _shouldn’t-_ Peter gasps as Harley slides up and down quickly, sucking hard, for just a moment, a few passes, bringing Peter to aching fullness.

“Mmm,” hums Bucky, the rumble going all through his chest. “I like that.” He grinds forward into Peter’s backside just a bit, and Peter realizes Bucky is _enjoying the show_ they’re putting on, how Harley kneels, how Peter responds, twisting a bit in Bucky’s arm. Bucky lets go of Harley’s head after a rough shove, chuckling when Harley chokes a little at the unexpected throat punch of Peter’s dick. He slides his hand to circle Peter’s dick and says, “Here, Captain, I can draw it out a bit, help Angel hold off,” and then tightens his grip around the base of Peter’s dick. Peter gasps at the sudden pressure, and thrusts up, up into the warmth of Harley’s mouth, up against the pressure of Bucky’s hand.

“I like that,” agrees Steve.

“You like it, too, Angel?” asks Bucky in a low, tight voice, beside Peter’s ear. “Know you like what your brother’s doing, can feel how you like it, Lord, is he dirtying your feathers, sinning you up some. But I know you like this, too,” he grunts, shifting behind Peter. “Like when a man puts his hands on you, don’t you, Angel?”

Peter shakes his head, overwhelmed, as Bucky’s hand clamps with such pressure, such intensity, that tears spring to his eyes. “Ah, ah, ah,” teases Bucky. “Harley here ever tell you about me and the Captain, how we got him half-tamed, between us?”

Harley whimpers, and sucks harder, hard enough that Peter is trembling, gasping, writhing in Bucky’s grip before Steve presses forward and reminds Harley in a commanding tone, “I said slow, Cat.”

Harley bobs his head in an aborted nod as Peter hisses and then makes a low whining noise as Harley starts up a slow rhythm of lips and tongue and _teeth_ , little hints- little- little- “Shit,” hisses Peter, arms rising up, trying to push Bucky’s arm off of him.

Bucky chuckles, ignoring Peter’s attempt with a pronounced air of complete unconcern. He nibbles at the shoulder of Peter’s shirt. “Don’t make the Captain run for the soap dish, Angel. Now’s not a good time for an interruption. Not when I just started storytelling.”

Harley whimpers again, and Peter braces, his whole world one hot line of hellfire from the back of his neck where Bucky’s teeth tickle, down his spine and into- into Harley’s mouth and- and down Harley’s- no, Hellcat’s- throat, on a long languorous suck from the man. But Harley releases him to the lap of his quick tongue before Peter can panic about how good it feels, and Bucky continues, “Back in those first days, God, used to have to wear Hellcat out to get him to settle. We’d punch bags and go for runs and hell, Cap’n, remember that week I had him splitting logs with Willy? And the Boss wasn’t taking much interest in him, not then, too busy, was in the middle of that war that ended with us in Hell’s Kitchen, remember that, Steve?”

“I do,” says Steve in a thick voice. Peter’s eyes fly open to catch his expression and Steve’s eyes are rapt, staring at Peter’s crotch, at Harley’s mouth, Bucky’s tight grip. Peter wonders who Steve’s wishing he could be for a moment before wondering if maybe Steve’s right where he wants to be, by the way he’s looking at them. Steve continues in that same thick tone, “That was the second walk through those streets, and damned if it didn’t half-kill the Empire, back when we was spindly and just getting started. Damn fool idea, to try to take on that chaos. Better just to burn ‘em all out and build new.”

Bucky laughs and says, “Steve, ain’t talking strategy right now, with the Cat’s tongue wrapped around our Angel. Ain’t willing to ruin it. Boss was busy, that’s all, Angel. So I’d run Hellcat till his whole body’d give out and he’d sleep for us. What you’d do with any wild creature like he is. And then, oh, couple weeks in, I hit on the idea that there were better ways to wear a body out than just running and punching and chopping wood. Ways I’d like better, anyway.”

Harley glides up and off of Peter with a lewd _pop_ to interject, “Hey, I liked ‘em better too! _And_ they was my idea. Mostly.” He grins up at Bucky, his lips already swollen and pinker, and Peter knows he’s already forgotten he didn’t want to do this, and marvels at it. As good as Harley’s mouth feels wrapped around him, he can’t forget that Harley already apologized _for real_ and this is _wrong_.

Bucky and Steve are both laughing, though, as Peter shivers with guilt and shock at the sheer intensity of how Harley’s mouth always feels. “Ok, Cat,” agrees Steve, his eyes twinkling at Peter, “maybe the idea was yours but you gotta admit, the way we went at it-“

Harley groans and tells Peter earnestly, “Just don’t ever get yourself a case of insomnia, because they got a cure, but you’ll limp for weeks, brother.”

Bucky shouts a laugh, then, and rubs an affectionate hand through Harley’s hair. “Go on,” he tells Harley, “back to them little licks, draw him along while I talk.”

Peter grunts as Harley sinks back down on him, tongue fast and eager, and then trembles as Bucky holds him a touch too tightly and whispers, “Yeah, you like that, I can tell, like having him wrapped around you saying sorry, I can tell, little Angel.”

Peter shakes his head because _no, no that’s not_ \- but has to admit, it is a little true, as he trembles and attempts to thrust upwards. Bucky chuckles, wild and wicked and _knowing_ , against Peter’s ear, “So we’d stretch him out on the bed between us and one of us would hold and the other’d drive him wild, with our hands or our mouths, shit, one time, remember the feather, Steve?” He laughs, low and rich, the dark tone of it rolling across Peter’s neck and down his chest to where the man’s arm still pulls him tight to Bucky’s chest. “And he’d beg for it and beg for it, beg us to stop, be crying for it, wouldn’t he, yowling, our Hellcat, but he sure did sleep good once we’d worked it out of him.”

Steve and Bucky laugh when Harley makes an indignant noise. It vibrates along Peter’s length and makes his whole body ache- his hips jerk forward, seeking- seeking _something_ , and Harley makes an encouraging sound. There’s no sound in the room, then, but Peter’s gasping breaths and the wet noises Harley makes, his mouth moving furiously over Peter.

Peter can feel Bucky’s length begin to press against him, filling up, become insistent along the curve of his back, and he doesn’t mean to, but he’s squirming and wiggling, small thrusts up into Harley’s mouth, up against the insistent pressure of Bucky’s hand, wrapped tight at the base of his cock and holding there. He’s wiggling, and moving, and he knows that can affect a guy, so he’s not shocked when the breath against his neck where Bucky is nipping kisses into his hot flesh becomes harsh and ragged, and the nips become gnawing. It lights fire up and down his spine, the way the man holds him tight, the pressure that builds in his dick as Harley sucks and Bucky squeezes- everything is too much, much too much.

“Awww,” comments Steve lowly, “getting a bit much, Angel? You need something?”

Peter nods his head without opening his eyes because he knows this feeling, knows what he needs is to _spill_ , to _release_ , to _let go._ He’s caught, though, caught up by Bucky, held tight while Harley’s mouth does all the work. And that’s- that’s too much, that Harley’s doing everything, he’s- God, his mouth, it feels so hot, so good, sliding wet and warm, insistent. It’s too much, and Peter gasps, “Please, please- Steve- Bucky- Hellcat- please-”

Bucky chuckles against the nape of his neck, licking and kissing and nipping as he teases, “Aw, Angelbaby, so sweet, so nice, all them soft words for us.” Peter feels the tears that have sprung up again hovering at the corners of his eyes.  
  
Steve sighs and says sternly, “Now, Angel, you be good.” Peter nods frantically, because he _can_ be good, he _can_.  
  
Bucky teases, “Had to beat or fuck every single good manner Harley has now into him, back in the day. But you came to us with all your good manners, didn’t you, Angelbaby? Didn’t you come to us knowing exactly how to wrap us around that pretty little pinky of yours?”

Harley moans, and the vibration of the sound against Peter’s cock make him thrust up into Bucky’s hand, lifting his hips a bare half-inch and groaning, “Please, please, sir-” and he has no idea which _sir_ he’s addressing, it’s just the easiest way, he thinks feverishly, to address all of ‘em at once- “Please, please, let go, let me- let me, please, wanna-”

“You don’t even know what you want,” says Bucky with fond exasperation. “You stop that beggin’, you don’t even know what you’re beggin’ for, and we know best, don’t we, Hellcat?”

Harley makes a sound of agreement and Peter lifts his hips again, the bare half-inch Bucky allows him, groaning, biting his lip, careful not to _beg_ , if Bucky doesn’t want _begging_.

Bucky chuckles and says, “You call it, Captain, I’m having too much fun, I’d keep ‘em here all afternoon.”

“Well, it is their first time, both of ‘em,” says Steve slowly and Peter nods, frantically. Bucky said _no begging_ , so he won’t beg, but he grunts, low and tortured, as Harley hollows his cheeks and begins to suck in earnest. Peter can’t control the motion of his hips, and he’s almost grateful for Bucky’s hand, in that moment, the way the weight of it prevents him from snapping up into Harley’s mouth.

Bucky chuckles and says, “Time off for good behavior?”

God, Hellcat’s _mouth_ , gliding up and slipping down, how- how- this isn’t good behavior, this is wrong- All of it. Every little- God, _God_ , he won’t beg, he _won’t_ , Bucky doesn’t want it. He won’t.

“Yeah, sure,” drawls Steve, his voice amused but- but breathy. 

Peter won’t look. He _won’t-_

-except he _does_ , he risks a glance at Steve and his mouth falls open in incredulous little pants because Steve is smiling, his eyes smug and intent on Peter’s crotch. He smirks up at Peter and for a second- just a second, Peter considers begging _him_ and damn Bucky, but then Steve gives a little nod and taps Harley’s shoulder. “Get ready,” he suggests casually. “Good behavior deserves a reward,” he adds in a pompous tone of voice, shaking a finger at Peter. “You remember that. Enough of a show, Buck?”  
  
“Never, O Captain my Captain,” declares Bucky, thrusting up a little against Peter’s backside, rubbing there, making Peter moan at the thought of- the thought- he doesn’t know why he moans, but it’s something, about Bucky’s length, pressed _there-_

“Well, Hellcat can give you a front row seat, next,” laughs Steve. “Loosen up that pipe wrench, soldier.”  
  
“Sir, yes, sir,” snaps Bucky with a laugh, and then, as Harley hums with interest, he releases his hold on the base of Peter’s length and Peter’s entire world shatters apart, hot hellfire ripping through every nerve and muscle, making him rock up against Bucky’s hand, splayed flat across his hip.

When he’s done, when the fire fades, he realizes he’s crying, and Bucky is still rubbing against him with interest. “Christ, love it when he lets loose some of them crocodile tears, Captain.”

“Well, rub away, need to borrow Hellcat after a show like that,” mutters Steve, shifting Harley by tapping him impatiently on the shoulder with one hand, the other already eager at the fastenings to his own pants.

“Don’t mind if you do,” chuckles Bucky, his strong hands lifting Peter and arranging him face up on the couch, his hands a little too rough and grasping. Bucky’s dark gaze travels up and down the length of Peter’s body eagerly, before resting on Peter’s face and becoming heavy and still. Peter gulps back the last of his sobs, staring up at Bucky, reminded by the easy way he’d moved Peter how starkly different they are, how strong of a contrast there is between Peter’s lean body and Bucky’s powerful one. “You remember what I said about being good, Angel,” he says, slowly, as the wet sounds of Harley at work start up again. 

Peter nods, wiping at his cheeks, trying to hide the evidence of his shakiness with fast motions. The echo of the crest of his pleasure slides down his spine, reminding him that his body likes this whirl of touch and sensation, responds to it, wants more of it. Craves it. Bucky catches Peter’s hand, a quick snatch of his hand forward, and chides, “Naw, you leave ‘em for me. Rivers and roses, I like all these gifts you keep for me.” His eyes are as amused as his tone, his hands confident and calm as he stretches himself out next to Peter on the couch, blocking Peter’s view of Harley and Steve.

“Gave a pretty good show, Angel,” Bucky concedes, dipping his head for one of his fast, demanding kisses, forcing his tongue roughly past Peter’s lips. “Mm,” he hums, obviously pleased when Peter offers no resistance. 

Pleased is so much better than _angry._

Peter gasps into the kiss as Bucky fumbles with his belt, shifting slightly awkwardly on the couch beside Peter as he slides his pants down his hips. After resettling, Bucky growls back at him, a low, savage sound, his hands running up Peter’s sides, wrapping around Peter’s neck, thumbs extending up across Peter’s jawline to tilt Peter’s head just exactly where Bucky wants it. Peter melts along with it, pliant. He’s learned Bucky gets nicer the nicer Peter is, the more Peter lets him _have_ , the gentler he becomes about _getting_ it.

And sure enough, the trick works again, as Bucky’s breathing goes from growls to hums. “Gonna let me, huh?” asks Bucky, in a rough whisper, pressed into Peter’s space, his thicker, straining dick rubbing in tiny little thrusts against Peter’s relaxed and soft one between them. “Gonna let me have what I want, Angel? Let me dirty up them feathers a little? Nice way to say thank you for all the trouble you’ve been, last day or so.”

Peter wants to protest again that _it wasn’t him causing trouble_ , but he remembers Steve saying _Good behavior gets rewards_ , so instead he answers the question by nodding anxiously. Yes. He’ll let Bucky have what he wants, he will. Whatever- whatever that could be.

“Ahh, knew you would, little lamb,” brags Bucky, kissing Peter deeply again, pressing him back into the couch cushions with the force of his desire. “Here, spread your legs, just a little- just-” he directs, his heavy hands already arranging Peter exactly as he wants him. “There ya go, Angel,” he purrs, dark eyes flashing when Peter looks up at him in confusion, Bucky’s dick tucked between his two thighs. “Just like that. Gonna buck into you, see? Like this.”

Bucky thrusts forward, a powerful and abrupt motion that shivers the couch and makes Peter’s head tip back. Across from them, Steve gasps, and Harley grunts.

“Sarge, he ain’t ready-” begins Steve, breathlessly.

“I say he is,” growls Bucky, holding tight to Peter’s shoulders and pulling back, only to thrust forward again. “I say he can take it, Cap, you let me show you what he can do. Could use some oil, you get done with Harley anytime soon, send him for it.”

Harley makes a tortured noise, and Steve grunts, but Peter can’t keep track of them when Bucky’s- when Bucky’s right there in front of him, dark eyes flashing with desire, mouth slightly slack as he pulls back and thrust forward, the feel of him gliding through Peter’s sensitive inner thighs an overwhelming shock to Peter’s already over done nerves, making Peter’s dick half-hard already, so soon after softening.

God, it feels _good._

Bucky’s hands grip tight and that feels good too- the way Bucky’s muscles move him in a rocking motion, that’s good, too. The musky smell of Bucky fills Peter’s head and makes him want _more_. Daring, he tilts himself forward, towards Bucky’s collar, to nuzzle there, at the man’s throat. 

“God, Angel,” mutters Bucky, pushing Peter back, “Don’t you- damn, Petey, I like this too, good to just- y’r a good sport. Just- just hold still, though, I’m-”

Peter licks his lips, thinking of how much he’d melted into that kiss, how it had felt to just give Bucky what he wanted to take, how it always feels, giving Bucky what he wants. He darts a glance up at Bucky to catch the man with his eyes closed, forehead furrowed in concentration. Peter cranes his neck, carefully, and places a gentle, soft kiss on Bucky’s mouth, just to remind the man. 

Bucky’s eyes fly open and he stares at Peter a moment before his lips curl into an amused grin. “Oh, so it’s like that, is it, Angel?” he whispers, and Peter has no idea what Bucky is talking about, but he nods. _Yes_. _Yes, Bucky_.

“Mm,” hums Bucky again, laughter at the edges. He tips his head toward Peter and takes Peter’s mouth in another devouring kiss, hot and possessive, and leaving no doubt as to who’s taking and who’s giving, right then. His strong frame shakes the entire couch as he continues to thrust, pressing Peter deeper and deeper into the couch cushion. He chuckles, occasionally, as he establishes a rhythm, but Peter doesn’t even mind enough to blush.   
  
Peter knows how to tame the wolf, now, and it mostly involves being willing to be the lamb.

“Can’t wait,” grunts Bucky, pulling back a scant inch to breathe deeply, clearly seeking some kind of control, “to have _in_ you, but-” he thrusts and then holds there, shifting, vibrating, wiggling, “-this’ll do, ‘til then.” Peter nods, senselessly, not entirely certain what he’s agreeing to, but wanting Bucky to _know_ Peter’s in agreement. Peter can feel the tension build in Bucky, but it’s different, when it’s just Bucky seeking to spill out, when it’s not threaded through with anger or frustration or disappointment, and it’s glorious, in that moment, the way his body barrels towards his release, using Peter’s flesh to chase it.

“Guess he don’t need oil,” chuckles Harley from somewhere beyond Bucky’s back. Peter’s eyes flutter closed because he doesn’t want Harley right now, he only wants Bucky. Bucky, who presses him back, grips his hip, and takes. Bucky, who seals his lips over Peter’s and spears open Peter’s mouth, hips grinding forward in pounding rhythm, shaking them both, waking up Peter’s body at every point of contact.

“Go get it anyway,” orders Steve lowly. “I’ll take care of you, settle you down, too.”

“Yeah?” asks Harley, and there’s something shocked and awed in his tone, something that makes Peter moan into Bucky’s mouth, because Harley never sounds like that, shy and sweet, except at midnight.

“Yeah,” responds Steve, and his voice is the same steady, soft voice that curls around Peter’s spine in their moments alone, intimate and pure, “More than earned it, Cat. Go trot over and get it.”

Peter expects Harley to giggle, but he doesn’t. Bucky begins to leak, sloppy wetness painting Peter’s thighs, and Peter gasps into the kiss, making Bucky chuckle. “See? Told you you’d be enough. Just be good, Angel, just like that. Let me feel ya.”

Peter nods and bites his lip. Bucky growls again, and captures his mouth in another deep kiss, knocking the air briefly out of Peter’s lungs and spinning his head ever more dizzily. The sound of Harley stumbling back to Steve is almost lost in the sensation of Bucky, the glide and slide of him between Peter’s thighs as they get wetter and wetter, Bucky aiming now for the same slick spot with every thrust. 

Bucky begins to pant, and then to grunt, chasing his release. Harley is mumbling something, a short chant that Steve responds to with a soft soothing hum of interest, and Peter’s eyes are screwed so tightly shut he may never be able to pry the open again.

Bucky chuckles, “Well, look at your little red-face soldier, there, Angel. Ready to do his duty again. Christ, can’t wait to get inside you, watch you fall apart spitted on me. I know you’re made for it- don’t look it, little sweethearted lamb you try to act- but I know you’ll love it.”

Peter fumbles for a minute before he realizes Bucky’s talking about how Peter is hot and aching again, being rubbed by Bucky’s body with each thrust, the small pressures, the sheer sensations, making him hard and stiff and _seeking_ again, chasing Bucky’s release with his own, he can feel it. Bucky grunts, and then shifts, his rhythm going wild as he begins to get close. Peter holds his breath for several thrusts, waiting for it, and then gasps and takes another deep breath, holding that one, too, before Bucky swears and seals their lips into another searing kiss, thrusting even more wildly into the space between Peter’s thighs for a moment- two- three- before groaning into the kiss and rearing back, panting, hips pressed tightly to Peter’s thighs. 

Warm wetness spreads behind him and Peter thrusts up, just to- seeking- he wants- there’s- _more._

Bucky huffs a laugh and pecks at Peter’s lips once, twice, before gasping, “Oh, you want something now, huh, Angel?”

Peter whines wordlessly, and Bucky chuckles again, releasing Peter’s hip to slide between them, pinching Peter’s length with cruel fingers. “Think you deserve two, little Angel? After all the shit fits you been throwing around here? Two? With all that bad behavior?”

“P-please, Bucky,” whimpers Peter pitifully. He doesn’t even care how it sounds, he’ll play lamb if that’s what the Wolf wants, he plays all kinds of things in this room. “P-please, Bucky.”

“Please yes? Please no? Which please,” laughs Bucky breathlessly, his hand sliding down Peter’s cock to tighten at the base, his dick still tucked between Peter’s legs, pulsing slightly. “Gotta say, hell of a ride. Might be willing to help you out.”

“Please,” begs Peter again. “Please, Bucky, please.”

“Mm,” hums Bucky, stretching his neck and licking his way into Peter’s mouth. He pulls back after a long moment and teases, “But which please, Angel, baby?”

“Y-yes, please, please, Bucky, yes, say yes, please,” begs Peter anxiously, his voice sliding higher and higher as Bucky grasps him tight, the need to thrust, to feel _anything_ , almost overwhelming.

“Mm, no, no for now, gotta earn it,” teases Bucky.

Peter can feel tears fill his eyes.

“Aww, streams and rivers full ‘o crocodiles, just for me,” coos Bucky cruelly, and Peter closes his eyes angrily, lips twisted. “Oh! And now them pouty lips pursing. Well, I know how to put that purse to use.”

Abruptly, Bucky pulls back, sliding free of Peter’s thighs and twisting to sit up, releasing Peter with a flourish of his hand. Peter gasps at the sudden lack of pressure, and then gasps again when Bucky pushes and shifts him until he’s sitting, his backside wet and sloppy, looking over at the two across from them.

Harley has his head tipped back to rest on Steve’s broad shoulder, one hand wrapped up around Steve’s neck, holding onto the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck as if it’s a lifeline. The other is caught in his own mouth, being bitten, as he clearly works to keep himself quiet. Probably, Peter reflects, on some order Steve had given him to shut up, because Harley’s _never_ quiet, by choice. Steve’s hands are wrapped around his waist, holding him on Steve’s lap, and gliding up and down Harley’s cock in a slow and steady rhythm- neverending, never speeding up, slow and steady and Peter _knows_ that rhythm, knows how impossible it feels, to let Steve set that pace, when your whole body is aching for more, faster, harder, _more_ and he won’t give it to you. Harley makes little injured noises, and Steve quirks an eyebrow at Peter before turning his gaze to Bucky.

“Yeah, Buck? You got an idea?”

“Angel needs to earn a second go,” Bucky says easily, like it’s a given that Steve will understand his meaning. “You mind?”

“Not at all,” says Steve graciously, nodding at Peter with desire-fogged eyes. Bucky pushes Peter forward to stumble and kneel between the knees of Steve and Harley, and then lays his hands flat on Peter’s shoulders. 

“Suck,” commands Bucky roughly, pressing forward with his hands sharply.

Peter licks his lips and looks up at Steve, who raises another inquiring eyebrow as if to say, _you heard the man_ , and tilting the angle of Harley’s cock to make following Bucky’s order that much easier for Peter.

Harley makes more high-pitched wounded noises as Peter tilts forward, opening his mouth delicately, and licking a little at the head before sealing his lips and giving cautious little sucks. Steve chuckles when Harley tries to thrust forward and releases his grip on Harley’s cock with one hand to press Harley’s hips back. “You stay put. Little brother ain’t ready for that.” He strokes Harley with the other hand still, in that same steady rhythm that Peter loves and hates so well.

Well. He can do something about that, for Harley.

Peter still isn’t sure he knows what he’s doing- not like Harley, who knows tricks and can do things that don’t seem possible- but he knows what Harley told him that first time is true. Peckers just like attention, is all. So he sucks and licks at every inch Steve allows him, feeling the tang of Harley’s release begin to coat his mouth as he flutters his eyes shut. 

“There’s a sight,” sighs Bucky, behind him, rubbing his back. It maybe should be distracting, but it feels good, and soothing, the praise, the affirmation, and Peter moans a little, wordlessly. Harley chokes and gasps, trembling now, Peter can feel how his thighs shift and strain, trembling with the force of how this must feel- Peter’s inexpert mouth and Steve’s sure and steady stroke, Bucky’s eyes hot on his skin. 

“All right,” says Steve lowly, as Harley’s whines go higher and higher, practically thrashing although Steve hold him so securely with the one hand that he barely jiggles on Steve’s lap. “Go on, Hellcat, spill. Angel’s got you, he’ll catch it, spill into him.

Harley groans at that, and then shivers, and then arches, hard, up into Steve’s hand and Peter’s mouth. Peter knows what to expect now, and he doesn’t cough, doesn’t choke, just swallows, and swallows, licking and sucking while Harley howls and keens into the hand in mouth.

“S-sorry, sir,” gasps Harley after a second, “d-did try, Steve, did, did try.”

“I know you did,” chuckles Steve, releasing his grip on Harley’s dick. Peter’s not expecting the sudden stop and it drops from his mouth with an obscene wet noise. “Was quieter than anyone had any right to expect out of you, yowler.”

“S’sorry,” gasps Harley again, tucking his head into Steve’s neck, eyes closed and looking more vulnerable than Peter’s ever seen him. 

“I know,” comforts Steve with a smile for Peter, kissing Harley on the side of his head. “Y’did okay, Alley Cat.”

“S-sorry,” slurs Harley again. Peter’s mind is caught, shocked, at how Harley hangs there, in Steve’s hold, limp and worn through, limbs loose.

“Your turn,” announces Bucky, shoving his hands under Peter’s armpits and pulling him back and up. 

Peter wants to protest- _does_ protest with his body, twisting and turning in Bucky’s grip- until Bucky gives him a great shake and growls, “Y’earned it. Here, Steve, toss me some of that oil before you tuck the Cat into bed.” His hand slides down Peter’s chest to grip Peter’s dick in a proprietary way that makes Peter’s mouth go dry in an instant.

Harley makes a noise of disappointment. Steve chuckles at him, “Oh, like it’s a hardship. Y’ain’t gonna miss anything, it’s six steps, and Angel doesn’t last long, not with how he’s already flushed and eager, anyway.”

Peter blushes, shrinking back into Bucky’s hold, but Harley doesn’t open his eyes as Steve tosses Bucky the oil one-handed. Bucky catches it one handed, too, and offers it to Peter. “Get your hands greased, you’re helping.”

 _Oh._ They’ve done that many mornings, Peter on a towel on the floor of the bathroom, taking care of _it_ before or after he’s had his shave, Bucky’s eyes hot and watching. It’s rare, the mornings when Bucky slides a hand around Peter and jerks, pulling Peter’s spill out of him after a short time of tugging, but those happen, too, Peter gasping and doing his best to follow Bucky’s directions to be still and quiet, the way Bucky likes him best.

But they’ve never done it this way, with Peter perched on Bucky’s lap, his backside sticky with Bucky’s release, his mouth full of the salty tang of Harley, Steve no doubt watching from the bed beside Harley. 

Peter fumbles the cap when Bucky growls a warning, and coats his fingers, and then tentatively approaches Bucky’s fist with them.

“Go on, Angel,” orders Bucky sharply. “Get helping.”

Peter slides his hands, both of them, in and around Bucky’s fist, slotting his thin fingers between Bucky’s thicker, scarred and calloused ones. It makes him gasp, the contrast of sensations on his dick- his own tentative touches and Bucky’s forceful ones, but it’s not more than a dozen pulls before Bucky’s hand is a slick as his own, and the sensations begin to blur in his desire for _more_ and _yes_ and _please._

“Gonna beg again, baby?” asks Bucky lowly, beside Peter’s ear. Peter tosses his head at the sound of Bucky’s voice, rich and thick, shocking desire down to the base of his dick to settle there. “C’mon, that was fun,” teases Bucky. “Say ‘please’ again.”

“P-please,” gasps Peter obediently.

“Yeah, go on,” encourages Bucky, their hands moving together, forcing Peter to twist underneath all the building pressure. “Go on, Angel, beg a little. Beg your big bad wolf for some mercy.”

“Please?” pants Peter, tossing his head. “Please, no, Bucky, please.”

“ _No, Bucky?_ ” asks Bucky, causing a thrill of fear to slide in beside the sparks of need lighting up Peter’s body. “What’s that?”

“Please,” begs Peter, his voice thickening. “Please, Bucky, I need- I need-”

“What do you need from your Wolf, huh, little Angel?” teases Bucky, his fingers pulsing, knocking into Peter’s fingers as they attempt a faster rhythm. “Ah, ah, ah, I’m still driving, here,” he chides Peter. 

“N-no, Bucky, please,” whines Peter, shifting in his hold, wriggling side to side. “Please, Bucky, _more, faster_ , please, I want to- I want to- I need-”

“Already told you, you don’t know what you need,” grumbles Bucky, his fist stilling on Peter’s flesh in a way that has Peter thrusting anxiously up, to get contact, to get touch, his fingers scrabbling at Bucky’s, panting deliriously. 

“Please, Bucky,” Peter begs helplessly, tears coating his voice, he can’t help it.

“Told you, you don’t know what you need, telling me _no_ and then _please_ , you’re all mixed up,” snickers Bucky, clearly enjoying Peter’s desperation.

“Please,” begs Peter, fingers prying helplessly against Bucky’s.

“No,” says Bucky firmly, and Peter lets loose a single sob before he can stop himself. 

“No,” continues Bucky, shifting Peter in his arms, spreading Peter’s thighs to stretch on either side of Bucky’s splayed knees, the stretch uncomfortable but not impossible, one more burn added to the rest of the hellfire flaming up through Peter. “No, I know what you need, little Angel, and I’ve had enough of you trying to tell me you know better when you don’t know anything, you hear me?”

“Yes, Bucky,” sobs Peter, shuddering with need, aching for _more_ , willing to do anything, to be nice, to be good, to be whatever it is Bucky wants _now_.

“Put them hands around mine,” orders Bucky, his voice a deep rumble passing through to Peter’s chest.

Peter’s hands fly to comply, wrapping around Bucky’s. 

“No more begging. I know what you need, and you’ll get it,” order Bucky.

Peter nods helplessly, lips sealed against all the repetitions of _please Bucky_ that want to fly out.

“With me, now,” says Bucky lowly, quietly, and he begins to stroke, a slow, smooth stroke. Peter’s fingers slide in between Bucky’s and Bucky’s fingers shift to greet them, welcoming them to the task of doing- of making- of-

Peter gasps, pleasure shocking through his body. 

“Not yet, little shepherd,” warns Bucky darkly. “You can wait, and you will.”

Peter whines wordlessly, but concentrates on moving his fingers the way Bucky wants them to move, focused only on Bucky and on what Bucky wants, how he wants Peter, how he- 

“Shh,” soothes Bucky, “almost there,” and that’s when Peter realizes he’s begun to cry, just a bit, overwhelmed at how much everything feels, how Bucky’s making him feel.

There’s a moment, when a stroke makes every muscle in Peter’s body quiver and shake and tighten, all at once, his head tipping back to stretch and press against Bucky’s, and then Bucky chuckles and says, “There we go, c’mon, little shepherd. Gimme some white yarn, go on, spill it for me, right here in the lane, cryin’ and all.”

Peter can’t breathe, but he can quake apart, sucking in huge gasps of air just to whine it out, limbs aching with how they arch back into Bucky, held in Bucky’s hands as he tugs and tugs, pulling more and more from Peter’s body until there is no more. Until there’s nothing left to give.

“There’s a good Angel,” chuckles Bucky. “Just the mess I wanted, gave me just the mess I wanted. Christ, kid, it’s all over the couch, all over the floor now, in a puddle, oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

Peter’s face flames as he realizes Bucky’s right- he’s still coated in Bucky’s release and Harley’s is down his throat and now his own spill is all over the place, lines of it coating their still entwined fingers.

“Oughta get the Boss in here, to scold you, but I think deep down you’d like it,” murmurs Bucky in a low, cruel tone so quietly Peter’s not even sure he heard the man right.

Peter’s muscles ache and shake as Bucky lets go and shove him abruptly to his feet, pointing his clean hand at Peter with a scolding finger out. “And that’s the end of it, you hear me? No more tantrum. You got all the attention you need, right here, and someone’ll give it to you, but you ask nicely and stop trying to be the boss making us hop to your tune, you hear me?”

Peter feels his eyes widen as he gasps for breath, still, shaky on his feet. He nods to the banked anger he sees in Bucky’s eyes and sputters, “Y-yes, sir. Yes, Bucky. No more. S-sorry.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure you will be sorry,” threatens Bucky, “you ever try that again. You ain’t the boss around here, far from it.”

“N-no, Bucky,” stutters Peter, shaking his head wildly, trying to clear it. His eyes land on the- on the mess, on the floor, on the couch, feeling it creep down the back of his legs, now that he’s standing. “N-no,” he says again, with feeling.

“Well, okay, then,” says Bucky with finality. “Go wash up in the bathroom, I’ll get this. Bring me a wet washrag.”

Peter’s feet carry him to the bathroom fleetly, although he’s still a little shaky. He scrubs at his hands and pulls off his ruined pants, tossing them in the hamper with his shirt. He cups his hands and takes in three mouthfuls of water, trying to swish the taste of Harley out of there, before he grabs a clean rag and wets it, trotting back to the couch area where Bucky has straightened all the furniture and holds out an impatient hand. “Go get on the bed,” he orders Peter bluntly. “Y’re done until we swim.”

“Yes, Bucky,” Peter promises him wildly, scurrying away. 

Steve is stretched out next to Harley, who’s face down and already asleep, Steve’s hand placed gently on his back. He looks up at Peter and smiles gently, saying, “You all done? Good. Come crawl on, plenty of room.”

It’s easier, somehow, to say it to Steve, so as he climbs on the opposite side, Peter hisses, “S-sorry, Steve, I didn’t even know I was-”

“S’alright, Angel. You’re just finding your place, that’s all. And Bucky’s just making sure you know where you can push and where you can’t. You’ll figure it out, Peter. He’s not mad.”

“Oh,” sighs Peter, his head spinning. He shifts so that he’s facedown, and then, feeling his body start to blush with shyness, quickly slides under the light linen summer blanket. He may die of heat, but at least he won’t die of sheer shame. “That’s- that’s good.”

“Enough chattering,” orders Bucky, shifting from scrubbing at the carpet to scrub at the couch. “Lie still and quiet ‘til I get over there.”

“Better do what he says,” chuckles Steve, his eyes rounded with innocence and laughter. “Might make you go for three, you know.”

Peter looks at him, incredulous, and makes himself sink back into the pillows, just thinking about _three_ , when he didn’t even want _one_ not that long ago.

“You’ll be fine, Angel,” Steve soothes him, his eyes kind. “You’ll figure it out. You’re doing just fine.”

Peter watches Bucky scrub the couch and thinks about how he handled everything and everyone exactly wrong, the last two days, and thinks about how Bucky says he just wanted attention, and then he thinks, very quietly, about Harley. Harley, who’s laying boneless and relaxed on the bed beside him. Harley, who begged him not to be _cold_ , who ripped Peter’s book away from Peter when Peter was mid-paragraph to throw it out the window, before throwing other presents the rest of the family had gotten Peter. Harley, who’s only half-tamed, really, and who thinks up things like racing motorcycle chariots just when Tony’s buried deep in sorting out his Empire again after a long seaside break.

It’s a lot to think about, is all. And not all of it makes Peter feel better. 

Peter scoots closer to Harley, turning on his side, and rests one hand beside Steve’s on Harley’s back. Steve gives him a small smile, welcoming and sweet, tapping his fingers against Peter’s playfully, before turning back to watching Bucky with the same understanding eyes. 

Under their hands, Harley breathes deep and sighs in his sleep, going just a bit more boneless and relaxed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! To those of you who have reached out to check in with me in the past many weeks, thank you. I was drained, and then busy, and then busier than that busy, and it was just this week that things slowed down to a more story-creating pace. 
> 
> Thanks for check in. Thanks for coming back! Looking forward to hearing from you and hope you'll drop me a comment to let me know you're doing okay, regardless of whether you like the chapter or not!


	2. Sunshine Yellow

Peter and Clint are up at the range, sweating in the hottest heat of the day, trying out Peter’s latest modification to the Stark 1919. 

Clint shoots one more last round, squints, and then sighs, lowering his arms. “Yeah, I don’t know, Peter.”

“Yeah,” agrees Peter dejectedly. “Thought maybe I had it, but-”

“I think it’s just your aim improving, kid,” Clint says, and then he adds with a laugh, “I mean, not that that’s a bad thing, Angel!”

“No, that’s- it’s good,” Peter says. “But do you really- it didn’t feel any crisper to you? Any more tight?”

“Nope,” sighs Clint, stretching his torso carefully and wincing. He still does that a lot, thinks Peter sadly. “But, hey, if it’s your aim, that’s great!”

A brightness sparks in Peter’s chest. “Yeah, I guess so,” he says slowly. He glances up at Clint’s face and when he catches the pride in the other man’s expression, it makes his lips lift in an answer smile. “Yeah, okay, it’s great,” he says, embracing the feeling.

“That’s the spirit,” Clint teases. “You been coming up here every day, twice, three times a day, for awhile now. Oughta be seeing some return on that investment, even slow and steady, huh?”

Peter nods, beaming a little as he begins to collect the parts strewn across the range’s table. Clint steps back and lets him, watching. Eventually, though, there’s nothing left to pack away, straighten, or do a quick clean on. Peter looks up at Clint and thinks, _maybe today_. Maybe today he’ll ask.

“I know that look, you been giving it to me all week,” says Clint slowly. “Ever since Harley had that temper tantrum. I’m right here, Peter. Won’t hurt to ask. If I don’t want to talk about it, I won’t.”

“It’s just-” starts Peter, before stopping himself. It’s ridiculous, actually. He can’t pester the man with this. They’re _nothing_ alike.

“Just what,” asks Clint softly.

“Well,” says Peter, and then he thinks about what Clint just said, how he’s known all week that there was something off, and maybe it _would_ be better just to ask him and get it over with, rather than leaving it hanging. “I- I got the impression, you and your brother didn’t get along.”

“We didn’t,” agrees Clint, leaning back against the range table so that their eyes are more even in height. “You having some trouble getting along with your brother, Peter?”

Peter snorts, “Thought that was obvious, the way- the way the whole house heard him, that night.”

“Him having trouble with his temper and drink is just Harley, Peter. He’s had trouble with those two things long before you, has nothing to do with you, except if you tell me you’re having trouble now,” says Clint seriously. Peter thinks about that.

“Okay, so maybe it’s not obvious,” he says slowly. “It was some my fault, for- for ignoring him like that, for being so busy, letting myself get-”

“Harley throwing your stuff out the window when he got mad was some your fault?” asks Clint, frankly disbelieving.

Peter sets his jaw. “Some. He was upset.”

“He was upset before he came home, Peter. A dame threw him over for Johnny, down at the club. He came home looking for a rumble,” Clint mutters, tilting his head. “Want to walk me through how Harley’s temper is some your fault?”

Peter blows out a breath and glances up at Clint’s incredulous expression through his eyelashes. “That’s- I mean, Bucky said I was throwing a fit.”

“Bucky says anyone who’s annoying him is throwing a fit. Said the police officer who gave him a speeding ticket last week was throwing a fit, if you need an example,” says Clint bluntly. “Doesn’t make it true.”

“Oh,” says Peter, stupidly. 

“A man throws my stuff out of the window, I have a right to be mad about it,” says Clint firmly. “‘Specially when he does it because he’s looking for my attention, which he can get by asking for it. Nicely.”

“Oh,” says Peter again, kicking at the table legs gently. “I’m not- I don’t feel so mad anymore, Bucky saying that was like a, like a _shock_ to my thinking, you know. I was holding onto my mad. Harley did apologize. Lots.”

“That’s more than I ever got from my brother, when he broke my stuff,” agrees Clint, squinting at Peter a little.

“Yeah, so, I’m not mad anymore, not really, not like I was,” says Peter. “But I still got, like- I don’t- I-”

“You got things you want to say to Harley, Angel?” asks Clint, head tilting. “Better say ‘em soon. I always mess up when I try to talk to people, but it’s all, it’s all better out than in. When it’s out, you got a chance of fixin’ it. Always wished I could have found the right words between me and Barney early enough to maybe fix things, but words aren’t my specialty.” His voice is a little bitter, and it makes Peter’s eyes sting, thinking about his own bitterness.

“I’m just not ready to- it feels like everyone’s pushing on us to go back to how it was before, before he got so mad, before he said all that stuff and came into our room, you know? He said he’d throw me back and no one would even care, Clint,” says Peter around a sudden lump in his throat. “You don’t _say_ that to someone.”

“You don’t, unless you’re looking to hurt them,” says Clint in an agreeable tone, after a moment of silence.

“And Bucky said how I didn’t have stuff before Harley, so I shouldn’t get upset about him throwing it,” Peter bursts out, voice still clogged. 

“That’s bullshit,” laughs Clint. Peter darts a glance up at his face and Clint smiles easily over at him. “C’mon, you didn’t fall for that line, didja, Angel? Thought Phil was teaching you negotiation tactics, tell me you knew that logic didn’t pan out.”

Peter feels his heart lift a little. “No, I- I guess I didn’t buy it. I guess. I guess I did know it wasn’t- wasn’t right.”

“That’s right, you didn’t. You have as much right to stuff as anyone else here, Peter. And as much right as any of us not to have your night interrupted by a jerk brother who throws your stuff around and says things to hurt you,” says Clint firmly.

“Oh,” says Peter, shocked to hear someone say what he’s been thinking. “But- but Steve said I’d been throwing a fit-”

“And maybe you were, I don’t know. Barely saw any of you, was too busy shadowing Natasha and cleaning up after Harley’s little angry sulks at the Boss,” says Clint. “But even if you were, you didn’t start throwing your fit until he threw his first, Angel.”

 _Huh_. That feels… right, thinks Peter slowly.

“You want to know what I think happened? I think Bucky wanted his life to go back to being easy, and Harley stomping around the place being guilty and sulking isn’t easy, Peter,” says Clint, shrugging his shoulders. “And then he sees you throwing a fit, or what he thinks is you throwing a fit, and the man only has one solution to anything, Angel, and it’s to wade in and start smacking things ‘til they behave. There’s a reason Boss won’t assign him to you.”

“But, but Steve is for me, and he let Bucky-” mutters Peter angrily, not even sure who he’s angry with.

“The Captain’s almost the opposite. He ain’t gonna wade in unless things get out of hand, and he certainly ain’t gonna cross his Sergeant unless he thinks the man is way outta line. Man broke orders in the middle of a war zone for the Sarge, ain’t gonna tackle him for hurting a few feelings. Did Bucky hit you?” asks Clint bluntly.

“No, he just-” _made me feel guilty_ , thinks Peter. He shakes his head and says, “He didn’t.”

“Well, there ya go. Peter, every single person in this family’s got cracks you can fall into,” says Clint quietly. “Even me. Even Steve, even Pepper. Every one of us’s got something that pulls the other ones in. If you’re not done with Harley, go _talk_ to him. Don’t sit at the breakfast table thick as thieves with him and pretend everything’s okay. Don’t _do_ that kinda thing, it’ll eat you up.”

“I- I-” stammers Peter.

“Yeah, it ain’t easy,” says Clint bitterly. “You’re looking at the guy who can’t talk a bunch of mooks offa beatin’ him when they don’t even really want to be doin’ it. But I still tried, Angel. If it ain’t sitting right, you gotta talk. Not hide up here, talking to me. I ain’t the one you’re mad at.”

Peter blinks at Clint, who smiles dimly and stretches out a hand to ruffle his hair. 

“They made him lick me, to say sorry,” Peter blurts anxiously, and then braces for Clint’s reaction.

Clint snorts. “Nobody makes that kid lick anybody, Peter. Mighta suggested it, but Harley knows how to throw a fit if he doesn’t want to lick, or suck, or fuck. Chances are good he thought it would sway you to forgiving him.”

“It didn’t,” says Peter mutinously, kicking at the table again.

“Well, make sure you tell him that,” points out Clint, a smile quirking up one side of his lips. 

“Right,” says Peter, nodding once. _Right_.

“It’s almost 4, so go check in your rooms, he’s probably laying there under the fan melting. He’s hardly been drinking, think he’s a little gunshy at the moment, which is a point in your favor, as far as I’m concerned. Coulda used you three years ago, in fact,” says Clint, nodding for Peter to pick up the pack. “This family is full o’ people living with demons inside ‘em, Peter. But it seems to me, the man who can make Mr. Stark lay down in the middle of the afternoon and rest, well, he’s probably got some tricks up his sleeves I don’t have.”

“But you’ve got tricks, too, for helping people. You help me, Mr. Barton,” Peter protests, shaking his head.

“Well, that’s a first,” mutters Clint, but his lips are twitching at the corners when Peter glances over. “Go talk to Harley.”

“I’m gonna tell him I’m sorry I wasn’t good with words when I was so mad,” Peter says confidently.

Clint sighs. “Probably a good starting point, sure. Something most of us can remember struggling to do, ourselves.”

“Yeah,” says Peter. “Finding common ground, that’s what Phil says.”

“Phil’s a smart man,” agrees Clint with a wry smile down at Peter. “Always best to do whatever Phil says.”

Peter nods with determination. _Right_.

~~~

The determination lasts until he slips into his- their- bedroom, with the curtains pulled and the room dim, the rattle of the metal fans a dull roar.

True to Clint’s prediction, Harley’s stretched out on top of the covers, clearly drowsing. His suspenders hang slack from his waistband and his shirt is hooked on a bedpost, fluttering in the artificial breeze.

 _Well. Now, or- or later_ , thinks Peter. He bunches up his fists, thinking of how Clint tried to talk those mooks into not kicking him, even when he thought he was no good with words. This is just _Harley_. He can do it. _Now._

Harley stirs as Peter approaches the bed with heavy footfalls. “Who izzit?” he asks in a bleary voice, turning around and answering, “Oh, ‘s you, Angel,” before Peter can reply.

“What’s eatin’ you?” he asks after Peter says nothing, standing there beside the bed, mouth dry and all words fled. He sits up and scrubs his face, tilting his head at Peter. “You look, uh-”

“I didn’t like it, when they made you lick me,” Peter says in a burst.

“When who- what?” asks Harley, shaking his head, confusion written across his face. “What, Angel?”

“When- when I was- so mad at you, and you were apologizing,” clarifies Peter stubbornly. “I didn’t _need_ that. I didn’t want it. I just-”

“Oh, that,” says Harley. He chuckles, not meeting Peter’s eye. “Well, I told you, don’t mind it, was just a show for them, anyway.”

“Well, I didn’t like it,” says Peter. “I don’t- I don’t want you to do it, I want-”

Harley looks up at him with darkening eyes and says, “What do you want, Angel? What can a brother do for you?”

The words hang heavily in the air in between them, thick. Peter's ears echo with memories of Harley’s voice slurring, _bargain discount shoddy brother, shoulda known what I’d find kicking through garbage inna gutter like that._

“Did you mean all the things you said?” demands Peter, stung by the memory. “About how I’m not what you wanted, and not good enough, and you could throw me out anytime?”

“No,” drawls Harley, face draining of color. “Is that what I said? Damn. I didn’t- Peter, I get mad, sometimes, and I don’t know how- I know I get mean, I’m a mean drunk, ask anybody!”

“I’ve seen you drunk plenty and you don’t talk to me like that,” points out Peter in a voice that may be cold, but it doesn’t _shake_. “You’re drunk all the time, Harley, and you don’t rip books out of my hand and throw ‘em out the window.”

“I know that!” protests Harley, his eyes flickering up to glare at Peter. “I know, it’s like they said, I got mad at the skirt for switching to Johnny’s sidecar, and then came home with all that mad, and I _was_ missing you but you’re- I want you to be happy, and you like doing all the things you’re doing, so I didn’t-”

“Didn’t feel like you could speak up?” asks Peter, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He's felt like that, silenced, often enough in this house, he knows how a voice can get choked off.

“Yeah,” admits Harley, his eyes dropping to scowl across the room.

“Well, Clint says even if you hate it, you gotta speak up or it only gets worse,” Peter says sharply. “Because look, it got worse. Then I didn’t _want_ to be by you.”

“Ah, shit, Angel, and I didn’t blame you about that! I was trying to show you I was sorry, I was!” says Harley, waving his hands. “I don’t _blame_ you for being mad, it’s not _right_ , I’d kill anyone who did that to your stuff, I’m _glad_ Tony punched me and Bucky skinned me, I’d do worse, I think, if someone did that to you. I was trying to say that, trying to show you I know it wasn’t right, none of it!”

“And I couldn’t see it because I was so mad,” Peter admits, because fair’s fair. He _was_ throwing his own fit about the whole thing. Two fits don’t make a right, he thinks ruefully.

“You still mad?” asks Harley, his eyes sharp on Peter’s face, searching.

“Some. I’m more- I’m more mad you thought you had a right to do that, to throw my things and say those things to me,” Peter tells him, feeling a lump in his throat. “More, I guess, more worried you think those things you said.”

“I don’t,” protests Harley. “When I get mean drunk, I just- I just say whatever’s gonna hurt the worst. I don’t sit around being mean drunk all the time, brother, I promise.”

“Well, it can’t happen again,” says Peter, eyes stinging with tears. “Because if it does, I don’t know how I’m going to trust that.”

“I know,” says Harley lowly. “And I- I figured on _showing_ you. I haven’t hardly had anything to drink. Not like- not like that night, anyway. You can ask ‘Tasha, I asked her to help keep an eye on it. One or two, just to feel smooth, get rid of the jitters, that’s all, Angel. Until I can trust myself not to get mean drunk. And I was- I asked ‘Tasha to keep an eye out and- and _sit_ on me if I ever got like that again, if I ever came home that way.”

“What’d she say?” asks Peter, curious.

“She said sure, if she’s in the house. Wants me to talk to Bucky, though,” mutters Harley, rolling his eyes. “And I’ll have to, when she goes next week. He’ll help, even if I won’t like it at the time,” he says wearily.

“You didn’t want to suck on me,” Peter says, getting them back on track because he doesn’t know what to do with Harley’s plan to keep his temper out of Peter’s life. He doesn’t know how to feel about any of this, really. But Clint said to talk.

“Yeah, for all of a minute, Angel,” chuckles Harley, shooting him a rueful grin. “I like licking you off, and, well- I don’t mind the audience, done it many times, in fact.” He sounds like he’s bragging as he continues, “Look, you got your tricks, and I got mine, and I know Tony told you how I bought my life with my tong-”

“I don’t want that,” interrupts Peter with heat, crossing his arms, trying to look as unimpressed by Harley’s past as he feels. “I don’t-” he uncrosses them to clench them by his sides “- I don’t _want-_ I like what we do, Harley, at- at night, when- I like _that_. And I don’t _want_ you to think you gotta-”

“It’s not a matter of _gotta_ ,” protests Harley, hands flying up as if to ward off Peter, eyes flashing darkly. “I like to have you hot in my mouth. I _like_ it.”

“But I don’t, not that way” says Peter, feeling sad, looking down at Harley’s face, sad for some reason he can’t identify. “You want to show me you’re sorry, don’t- not like that.”

“Angel, you are the damndest thing,” marvels Harley, his eyebrows flying. “Never met a man argued himself _out_ of a suck.”

“Well,” says Peter, feeling awkward, shifting his weight. “I just-”

Harley laughs, “Naw, it’s okay, it fits, Angel. We call you Angel all the time, but it’s a lot more than just a name. I forget that sometimes. Sure. I can- I won’t.”

“And you won’t let Bucky make you?” asks Peter suspiciously.

“Bucky can’t make me do anything,” declares Harley a little recklessly. “Not anything like that, anyway,” he concedes more accurately. “And he won’t, not if- look, saying sorry that way, kissin’ and makin’ up, those can be things brothers don’t do, okay?”

Peter nods.

“Anything else, Chairman of the Board of Angels? Helluva negotiator, talking yourself out of a lifetime of sucks,” teases Harley, smirking.

Peter eyes him, his heart lifting. That- that wasn’t so bad. “You really don’t think those things?” he asks again, lowly.

“I really can’t even remember what all I said,” confesses Harley again, shaking his head with regret. “I know I was in the mood to hurt somebody, and I know- I know how I can be. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been whupped for spouting off all hot-headed, or trashing stuff, or just, just acting a fool. There’s a reason my nickname’s Hellcat, brother, and it ain’t- ain’t ‘cause I’m sweet and nice. Ain’t going to tell you any of them stories, neither. Would ruin any good opinion you had left of me,” he ends, bitterly.

“It wouldn’t,” responds Peter, tentatively. “I do have- I mean, you found me, Harley. And you’re- we’re brothers, you made us brothers,” he finishes softly.

“Yeah, I guess,” mumbles Harley blackly.

Peter steps forward, taking a deep breath before saying slowly and deliberately, “I believe you, Harley Stark, that you don’t mean any of those things, that you’re not gonna throw a fit like that at me again.”

Harley lifts his hands to grip Peter’s hips, eyes wide with shock, and says huskily, “You do? Just like that?” 

Peter tilts his head down, and Harley tilts his head back, and Peter holds them there, for a long time, searching Harley’s face, before confirming, “Just like that, Harley Stark. You gonna be a man of your word, for me?”

“For the best wifey in New York?” teases Harley, good humor radiating out of every pore in a way Peter hasn’t seen in weeks. “For the best damn wifey anywhere?”

“I’m still not your wife,” Peter informs him with exasperation. “Just because I’m not mad doesn’t mean-”

“Well, you’re for damn sure not the husband,” chuckles Harley, pulling Peter close, until he’s standing between Harley’s legs while Harley perches on the edge of the bed.

“You just said I was the Chairman,” Peter argues hotly. 

“Pepper’s the chair of all kinds of committees, just ask her sometime,” laughs Harley. His eyes flash with the same wicked relief Peter feels in his chest. “She’s always having little socials and meetings and stuff, it’s just summer so you don’t see it. Real active, for a wife.”

“I’m not your wife,” Peter tells him, but he can feel a kind of hysterical relief under the words, and Harley must catch on to it.

“Y’are, though, until I get saddled with a real one,” Harley says, mocking his solemn tone with sparkling eyes. “Just trying to be efficient, keeping it all in the family and friendly.”

“Not sure Phil would approve of saying that’s efficient,” says Peter sternly.

“Hang Phil,” laughs Harley, screwing up his face. He pauses a second, then, his face falling into serious lines. “Hey, Angel, can I- can I kiss you while I’m sayin’ sorry, or- is that like-?”

“You can kiss me now that you’re _done_ saying sorry,” offers Peter quietly.

“Oh, good,” sighs Harley, lifting his hands up to cup Peter’s chin and draw him down for a sweet kiss, the kind of kiss Harley usually only gives at midnight.

There’s sweat on both of their temples when they draw back, and Harley mutters, “Nevermind _Phil_ , hang this _heat._ ”

“You should ask Tony to put air conditioning in the new wing for you, for your theater,” suggests Peter a little breathlessly.

“Say, now there’s an idea,” says Harley, his eyebrows flying. “Make the whole place a nice dark icebox, tuck you away all nice and fresh for me, let you quench my thirst when I’m feeling so hot I can’t stand being awake and being sober.”

“Harley,” drawls Peter in protest, but his lips are twitching.

“What, Chairman?” teases Harley. “I’ll send it to subcommittee.” 

“That’s not how that works,” laughs Peter.

“Oh, I’ll read the bylaws tomorrow,” says Harley loftily, waving a hand.

“Bylaws,” splutters Peter.

“Or whatever, I wasn’t really listening, not my half, you know,” teases Harley.

“Harley,” scolds Peter, shaking his head. “Harley, you are an awful heir.”

“Even worse brother,” admits Harley, looking up at Peter with a wistful look on his face. “Still sure you’d sign up?”

Peter thinks back over the last week, weighs it against the rest of the past summer. “Yeah, sure, Harley. You’re absolutely awful, but you almost got them times tables down, don’tcha? So you _can_ be taught, if you’ve got a big enough theater dangling in front of you.”

“And a big enough stick chasing me,” laughs Harley, shaking his head. “What, are you gonna be my teacher, baby brother?”

Peter rolls his eyes and then frowns down at Harley, tilting his head as if considering it. “Where’d Pepper say she keeps that dunce cap?”

“In the cabinet with all the butterflies and things she found when they took that boat trip to Panama,” says Harley promptly, eyes twinkling.

“She does not, you liar,” Peter says, pulling back in mock affront. 

Harley follows him, standing. “No, she does, and I’ll let you put it on me, swear, scout’s honor, Angel.”

“ _Y_ _ou_ were never a scout,” scoffs Peter.

“Always wanted to be,” Harley counters, which is just so wildly unbelievable that Peter snorts. 

“Are we good?” demands Harley abruptly.

“I don’t know. I feel better, though,” Peter tells him.

“Yeah, me too,” says Harley. “Hey, can I have another kiss?”

“Build me a movie theater first,” laughs Peter, turning for the door and throwing Harley a sly look over his shoulder.

“It’s my _summer vacation_ ,” yelps Harley, brows drawing down.

“August 24th,” Peter reminds him, taking quick steps to the door. He’s got time yet for a quick swim, to cool off before having to dress for dinner. Tonight they’re hosting an ambassador, so it’ll be full formal, but tomorrow they’ll be off the hook- the Salvatores and their wives are coming to dinner, and Pepper promised they would do a garden party, where the cooler night air will offer some relief. “Summer’s almost over,” he teases Harley, yelping when Harley growls and gives chase, his heart starting to race, thinking of how good the cool water will feel, washing away the sweat of today’s hot work.

But first, he has to make it to the pool in one piece. Harley pounds after him, and Peter gives a whoop at the top of the stairs, just to warn Happy or Steve or anyone who might be climbing up them what’s about the descend down them, and then puts aside everything to concentrate on not tripping and falling on the fancy thick carpeted stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, folks! Thanks for being patient, it's been crazy! Kids in and out of the hospital, ME in and out of the hospital, but thank goodness no one has caught COVID yet. Shouts of thanksgiving go to my patient co-authors and betas, who have had to listen to me say, "I'll get XYZ done this week," and then those deadlines floated by in a sea of doctor appointments and work deadlines and the absolute insanity that is life right now.
> 
> Take care of each other. Reach out to those in need. Next chapter is in editing!


	3. Black Charcoal Smudge

Peter has looked forward so much to tonight’s dinner with the Salvatores that when Jarvis comes to tell him in a quiet voice that the Salvatores have had to back out, he throws himself back in his desk seat and splutters his frustration.

Pepper looks over, the frown creasing her face deepening as she blows on her morning tea. “What? What did I miss? Jarvis?”

“I regret to inform you, as well as Master Peter, here, that Signore Salvatore and his son have had what they so delightfully termed _a run of bad luck_ , and they will be unable to make tonight’s dinner as scheduled,” says Jarvis in a sympathetic tone of voice.

“Oh, dear. Do they need, um, assistance?” asks Pepper, cocking her head.

“Mr. Stark’s services will not be required,” Jarvis assures her. She takes a cautious breath and says, visibly regaining her calm composure, “Well. That’s a relief.” She eyes Peter a moment before adding diplomatically, “As well as a disappointment. I’ll send a letter. I was so looking forward to an evening with Elizabetta. The woman is a treasure trove of Old World gentility and newfangled sensibility. Give me, hm, a quarter-hour?”

“Thank you, madam,” Jarvis replies, bowing again and leaving the room.

Pepper eyes Peter again, cautiously, before saying diffidently, “You know, things happen- _change-_ rapidly. For both sides of the Empire. Learning how to-”

“I know,” interrupts Peter on a sigh, hunching forward over his work. “I know! I do. I just- Salvatore was going to get Tony to go up to the workshop tonight and- well. Doesn’t matter.” He puts on a smile for her and says, “I’ll send a letter, too?”

She smiles back at him, like sunshine through clouds, and encourages, “What an excellent idea, Master Peter. Yes. Please do.”

“Formal? Semi-formal? Casual?” teases Peter, marking and closing the books he’d just opened less than an hour earlier.

“Mm. You could use the practice with formal forms, and the Salvatores won’t mind ink blots and drips and drops on a formal letter from their favorite nipote,” she tells him serenely, her eyes twinkling right back at him. 

Peter crinkles his nose because a formal response is wildly out of place for a missed opportunity for family dinner, but then his mind whirls through all the ways he can make Salvatore and Eilzabetta laugh with it and he smiles eagerly. It’s a nice break, anyway, from the stuffy account books Phil had set him to studying.

“How many days until your birthday?” Pepper murmurs quietly.

“It’s tomorrow,” he tells her. He’s pretty sure the whole household knows it, but after the literal circus Tony threw for him just a few weeks ago, he doesn’t expect much.

“Mm. I’ll remind the Captain to have a quick word,” she says, as if to herself, jotting something down.

 _A quick word about what_ , Peter does not ask, already thinking of the most florid forms of address that he can pull out for the greeting of the letter. He can hear the scratch of her nib on the paper as she begins to compose her letter to Elizabetta- no doubt a quick and easy casual thing between distant relations. He’d better get going, if his letter isn’t going to hold hers up with the messenger. He pulls out a clean sheet of the best paper stock in his desk and smooths it out on the desktop, smiling. This is going to be fun.

~~~

After a cold lunch on the patio, Steve motions for Peter to follow him back up to the rooms. There’s something in his kind face, something serious, that makes Peter’s heart beat faster as they climb.

“Everything been all right between you and Harley?” asks Steve as they climb. “No more dust-ups?”

“None,” says Peter, ducking his head a little because it’s still embarrassing and unsettling to remember how Bucky had accused him of throwing a tantrum after the last one. He thinks of his talk with Clint, of Clint saying, _Bullshit_ in a steady voice, and it makes his heart pound, walking beside Steve. Steve, who had opened the palm of his hand, giving Bucky the floor. “I-I’ve been- you’ve seen me, I come out to the pool every day, to spend t-time with him, with all of you, like-”

“I know that,” Steve reminds him calmly. “I’ve seen how it settles him, that you make the time for him. Just checking, that’s all. You feeling crunched between all your other jobs, making time for him like that?”

“No, sir,” says Peter honestly, after a moment’s reflection. Steve steers them to his own suite, opening the door with a confident push and guiding Peter in with a hand on Peter’s back. “I- I forgot how much I love the pool,” he tells Steve quietly. “And the work I’m doing, well, I just would get lost in it, that’s all. I wasn’t- I’m not-”

“I know, I could see it,” Steve tells him, moving over to the sitting area and nodding for Peter to take a seat on the couch. “Come sit.” Peter tries not to look skittish- tries not to _feel_ skittish, but Steve’s never done this before, and Peter always gets things wrong. Well. Sometimes, anyway. And he’s not sure, now that he knows Steve can get things wrong, he’s not sure how he feels- if he needs- but this is Steve, Peter reminds himself. Steve, who came for him in the middle of the night. Steve, who shadowed his footsteps from room to room in the days after the kidnapping, calm and sure and solidly _there_. 

“Calm yourself, Angel,” says Steve, ducking his head to make eye contact with Peter. His eyes twinkle as he gently teases, “You’re not on trial. I was just checking in, making sure the surface isn’t hiding any murky depths, that’s all.”

Peter nods uncertainly.

“You can come to me, if things are boiling up,” Steve tells him, sitting down and grabbing for one of Peter’s hands, rubbing his own callused fingers over Peter’s knuckles. He looks down at Peter with a slight frown and says, “If I didn’t make that clear before, I’m making it clear now. When you’re having trouble, you can come talk to me, and I’ll help.”

Peter leans forward and says eagerly, “I know that, Steve, I know that! I didn’t know I was throwing a- I mean, I didn’t know I was handlin’ it wrong, but I did talk to you, I did, the whole two days, I did try!”

“You did,” confirms Steve solemnly. “And that’s real good, Angel. Real smart.”

There silence then, until Peter starts to feel awkward again, with his hand still held in Steve’s hands. 

“Anyway,” says Steve, and Peter startles at the suddenness of it, “brought you up here to draw you, some, if you still want.”

“Oh,” says Peter stupidly. “Yes, I- if _you_ want?”

“I do,” confirms Steve simply, reaching under the table and producing a box of charcoal sticks and reaching again to pull out a big ledger-looking book. “Lose the jacket?”

“Yes, sir,” says Peter faintly, already shouldering out of it. His breathing has gone weird and funky, his mouth dry, as he thinks about Steve and Steve’s artist’s eye, traveling up and down his body, wanting to _draw_ him. God, he hopes he doesn’t embarrass himself in the next hour or- or however long this is supposed to take.

“Other thing,” adds Steve, nodding for Peter to put the jacket over the arm of the chair, laying the supplies on the table and shifting Peter so Peter’s leaning back against the chair arm, one leg crooked on the couch cushion and the other firmly planted on the floor, one hand on his crooked knee and the other resting on his opposite thigh. “Other thing,” repeats Steve, “was Pepper asked me to have a little talk with you, man-to-man.”

Peter’s heart goes into overdrive as his face flames up. “O-oh?” he asks Steve, damning his voice for sliding higher.

“Yeah,” says Steve, opening the book wide on his lap and selecting a stick of charcoal. “Hold still,” he tells Peter. Peter nods and then catches himself to say, “Yes, sir,” huskily, instead.

“Good Angel,” Steve praises, and that makes a flood of heat hit Peter’s cheeks again. 

There’s silence for several long minutes, as Steve’s hand travels across the page, his eyes looking up and then flickering back to the page in front of him so often that Peter relaxes into the sensation of being looked _at_ , with no expectation of _sharing the gaze._ It lets Peter look at Steve, too, catching the way his blue eyes narrow with intent concentration, the way he hunches all of his power and strength around the tiny piece of charcoal. Peter imagines he broke a double dozen sticks, learning how to hold it delicately, it’s such a contrast of power and precision.

“There, that’s better,” sighs Steve after a few long minutes. “Been dying to get that one started. All right, can you take off that noose, loosen up a little? Want to get a few of you relaxed a bit.”

“Okay,” hazards Peter, popping the pin and beginning to untie the long length of silk. Steve doesn’t help, refining whatever he’s working on before nodding and flipping to a new page, looking up expectantly. 

Daring, Peter rolls up his sleeves and shifts until both of his feet are up on the couch, one bent and pressing against the couch back, the other stretched out to touch Steve’s thigh. He leans back and tucks his hands behind his head, whistling, just to make Steve laugh. “What?” he asks playfully, “you said _relaxed.”_

“It’s perfect,” Steve assures him in a heated tone, and Peter lets the warm glow of that statement close his eyes while the sound of the charcoal fills the room again.

“You’re a perfect angel, aren’t you, Peter?” asks Steve after a long moment. “No, go ahead, keep your eyes closed.”

Peter nods understanding, screwing them tightly shut before relaxing them. He replies, “I don’t know about that,” frowning a little. “I always get things wrong.”

“No, what I mean is, you’re innocent,” says Steve, his voice low enough that Peter has to really concentrate to catch the words.

Peter frowns again. “Innocent how?” he asks warily. The page flips, he can hear it clearly, and then the scratching sound of the charcoal begins again.

“Mm,” hums Steve. “Oh, you know, how we all get on, _the ways of the flesh_ is how my old priest used to call it. You don’t know what we ain’t showed you, yet.”

Peter flushes, squirming a little, one hand dropping to wrap around his stomach unconsciously. “Well, no, I don’t- I guess I don’t know anything that you, or, uh, _someone_ , anyway, hasn’t, uh, shown me, no,” he agrees slowly.

“Tomorrow’s your birthday,” Steve says, just as low, the charcoal scritching across the page in fast strokes.

“Yeah,” agrees Peter, mystified, “it is.”

“Mm,” hums Steve. “I know you’ve been hearing Tony and Harley talk their jaws off about that little arrangement they made, that first day.”

Peter shifts again, pressing deeper into the pillowed couch arm, rubbing his face with one hand, willing the burning blush to _go away_ already. “They do talk about it a lot,” he says, finally.

“I bet. I just bet,” Steve responds. There’s silence and then he says, low, secretive, “You bein’ so innocent, have you thought about what their talk means, though, Peter?”

Peter lets his confusion show on his face for a second before flinging an arm over his eyes and blowing out a breath to mutter, “No, not really, sir.”

“Here, shift down a little, Angel,” says Steve, tugging at his suspenders. “Bend your other knee, like that, yeah. Perfect. You can keep the arm there, over your eyes, but put the other one- hey, you mind if I unbutton your shirt?”

“Nah, go ahead,” says Peter, his heart racing, trying to make himself sound casual, uncaring. Steve sets aside the portfolio journal and the charcoal, his fingers working fast and efficient to unbutton and then press open Peter’s shirt. His fingers trace smudges against the crisp white cotton, but Peter feels paralyzed, unable to shift or move to help him, unable to protest that he’ll need another shirt, now, before dinner.

“Yeah, that’s right,” mumbles Steve. “Hold it right there, okay, Angel? You comfortable like that?”

“Yes, sir,” says Peter, which isn’t exactly honest. If he was being honest, he’d acknowledge how jumpy he’s feeling, how twitchy. How itchy his skin feels, tingling everywhere Steve brushed against. How exposed. He’s grateful for the arm resting over his eyes. It feels like a huge gift of privacy, for both the drawing and the conversation.

Steve hums again and then, after several long minutes of arranging paper and the quiet sound of the charcoal, he says, “Thought not.” There’s more long moments that stretch the time strangely around Peter until he’s sure it’s been both decades and mere heartbeats before Steve says, “Thought I’d help talk you through it, if you want.”

“Ah, yes, yes, sir,” says Peter hesitantly, and then he adds, “Please?” It comes out plaintive, but Tony and Harley _tease_ all the time, and sometimes don’t give any warning for the things they come up with, and Harley’s always talking so much, saying stuff, and some of it doesn’t seem possible, really. Clint and Bucky hoot and laugh at some of it, and call it bullshit, but Peter can’t discount all of it, especially when they _don’t_ laugh at some of it, too.

Steve grunts, and there’s the sound of the journal being set on the table, the feel of Steve scooting closer, putting his hands on Peter’s knees. “Okay, then, let’s chat, and then I’ll draw some more. Want to give you all my attention, for a talk like this. Make sure you feel good, and confident, leaving it. You go ahead and keep your sweet angel eyes covered if you need to, I can understand that, coming from you. Whatever makes it so you can talk and listen, ‘s fine with me.”

Peter nods and takes a deep breath, holding it for a long minute before releasing it in a burst.

“What do you have figured out, so far?” asks Steve quietly, his voice clear of anything but simple curiosity.

Peter grimaces. “Only what I’ve heard, I guess. Harley says I’m- I’m still a v-virgin, he’s always saying that, how I’m pure and innocent and stuff. He s-says there’s lots of sin left, that he and Tony have all these plans, because we ain’t even explored the tip of the, uh, iceberg. And- and sometimes-” Peter swallows nervously, “-sometimes Tony says stuff- or Bucky- even you- about being _in_ me, but you- I guess, not in my mouth? Not j-just in my mouth.”

“No, Angel, not just in your mouth,” agrees Steve, his voice a little thick, just a hint of amusement coloring it. Peter’s cheeks flame as Steve’s hands rub his knees soothingly. “Anything else?”

“Oil?” asks Peter. “There’s- I think-”

“Yeah, oil’s part of it,” chuckles Steve. “Well, that’s not bad, for a place to start. Here, let’s have a little anatomy lesson, you mind?”

Peter shakes his head and Steve chuckles again. “You’d agree to anything,” he teases, snapping Peter’s suspenders loose and sliding Peter’s pants and drawers down his hips. Peter yelps, one hand going to grab the pants and pull them back up before Steve chuckles, “Well, not anything, I guess. C’mon, Angel, it’ll be easier, promise it. Have I ever touched you and you didn’t like it?”

Peter considers this, feeling his panic weaken and subside. No, that’s true. He always does like every touch Steve gives him. When Steve’s hands return, to draw down the pants and drawers, he lifts his hips and lets it happen. “Thanks, Angel,” says Steve huskily.

Peter nods, breathing deeply, the arm across his eyes pressed tightly there, the other hand fisted by his side.   
  
Steve lifts that fist and Peter startles a bit, but Steve just strokes the knuckles and side for a long minute, pressing it open and flat as Peter relaxes a little. “There ya go,” he murmurs. “Nothing you won’t like, I promise, Angel.”

Peter nods again, shifting his weight on the couch, feeling the scratchiness of the upholstery on his butt and thighs. Steve caresses his shirt open just a little more, runs soothing fingers across Peter’s trembling undershirt-clad stomach, and pauses, one hand on his stomach. “Going to draw you for a bit, just like this, Angel. Just hold still, no one will see ‘em. It’s like all the nude art around the house, Peter, it’s just the body, the way the muscles look over the bones. Just good practice for me, I promise.”  
  
Peter doesn’t point out that the nude art around the house is mostly in Mr. Stark’s office and study, the billiard’s room, all the masculine places, and it’s all nude _women_ in those rooms, besides. Steve shifts Peter’s legs a little wider, presses his hand so that it rests loosely in the cradle between leg and torso next to the leg that’s bent, fingers cupped. “There,” he says, finally. “Just like that. Just breathe, Angel. You’re a work of art as pretty as anything Mr. Stark hangs on those walls, just trying to capture a little of that. Just breathe.”

Peter holds himself still for Steve, and just breathes.

Time passes, slow and fast, and then Steve leans back and puts the journal back down. “Okay, sorry about that, needed to catch it while I had the book out, Angel.”

Peter nods even though he doesn’t really understand. He can hear Steve’s smile when the man says, “So, anatomy. Had to learn a lot about anatomy back when I thought I’d be too sick to do anything but draw and die. Let’s get you up to speed with the things we all know, huh? Things you’ll want to know, things that’ll make it easier, okay, Angel?”

Peter nods a little frantically and whispers, “Please, Steve.”

“Good,” Steve soothes him, one hand resting on his stomach. “Here’s your stomach, all full of organs and stuff, right?”

Peter blows out a breath and rolls his eyes, snorting. “Yeah, you knew that one,” notes Steve agreeably. He slides his hand upward and says, “You know this one, too, right?”

“Heart,” says Peter promptly.

“Yup,” says Steve, patting there. “And you got a good one, right, Angel?”

Peter rolls his eyes again, and says, “I guess.”

“I don’t guess about it, I know it. You got the best heart, Angel,” Steve says in a warm voice that makes Peter squirm a little, a soft flush rising up his body. “There ya go. Now you’re listening,” Steve says with deep satisfaction. “Good heart.” He pats his hand again, and then trails his fingers across Peter’s stomach and grips Peter’s hips in a firm grasp, shaking them a little. “Hips.”

“Hips,” agrees Peter, wiggling them a little in Steve’s grip, making the man laugh and shake harder. “I got hips, Steve, I know what hips are,” he tells the man scornfully, the other man’s laughter freeing up his chest a little.

“Mm, yeah. And you know some of how to use ‘em, don’t you, Angel? Used ‘em on me, used ‘em on Bucky just this week, to get him all riled up, didn’t you?” says Steve quietly.

 _Oh_. “Y-yes, sir,” says Peter hesitantly, but then he licks his lips nervously and asks, “Is- is that-?”

“Part of what’s coming for you tomorrow? Yeah, Peter, it is,” says Steve softly. His strong fingers clench and release on Peter’s hip in a pattern Peter can’t decipher, tight-release-tight-tighter-release. Peter’s mouth is dry again, he notices distantly.

“Thighs,” Steve sighs eventually, sliding his hands down and around, running cautious fingertips up and down Peter’s thighs, making Peter burn abruptly with _thoughts_ and _memories_. “May or may not come into play, the way they did with Bucky earlier this week, but it’s good to remember them. You have good thighs, and they’re so smooth. Feels good to touch them. What you’ll be doing with Mr. Stark, with, well, going forward- ‘s sometimes called _taking a man between your thighs_ , Angel.” He continues to stroke, up and down, fingertips barely touching Peter’s skin, until Peter’s hips jerk, just once, and he stops, saying, “Good thighs, that’s what you’ve got, Angelbaby, and we’re all lucky men, that you’ll let us between ‘em.”

Peter’s mouth drops open to pant a little, thinking about all that’s implied there, all the things- the memory of Bucky, of what he’s half-imagined might happen with Mr. Stark. His skin is so tight, but only because everything underneath it, every nerve and every thought, is in a whirl, stretching outward wildly and wanting to become the kind of motion that- that turns this moment from an anatomy lesson into something else, something Peter’s not sure- not sure Steve wants, right now. He said he wanted to _talk_.

“Gonna touch you, don’t go getting skittish,” says Steve lowly, huskily. Peter nods hesitantly, and the hands trail upwards together, on the inside of the thigh. “This right here’s sensitive, I know Harley’s touched you all over here, hasn’t he?” asks Steve, the hands settling at the crease between thigh and crotch, rubbing. 

Peter nods, biting his lips. Steve’s voice is coaxing as he says, “Yeah, he’s touched you here plenty, I know it. I have, too, because I know how it feels. Feels good, doesn’t it, Angel?”

Peter nods again, tossing his head a little under his arm.

“That’s good, Angel. It should feel good. It should all feel good, Lord knows _we_ all made our mistakes young, but we know all kinds of ways to make it feel good, and that’s what we want for you, any one of us. Want you to feel good, like this. This feel good, Angel?”

“Y-yes, sir,” hisses Peter, before biting his lip again.

“‘Course it does. Harley teach you about your sweet spot yet?” Steve’s hands press lower, further, and rub in, and Peter nods, gasping, “Yeah, he- he pushes on it, said T-tony likes- and he l-likes it, too, when I p-push there, says it m-makes it better.”

“Does he?” asks Steve in a thick voice. “Well. That fits with what I know about Hellcat, anyway.”

Maybe Peter shouldn’t have said that, about Tony. Oops. It’s just hard to think, right now. 

“So then there’s the obvious things, too, Angel,” says Steve, hands trailing up. “Your balls, they’re called, you ever heard them called that?”

“Yeah,” grunts Peter, as Steve begins to massage them gently. _God_ , it feels _so good_. He arches his back a little, to relieve the strain, and Steve mutters, “Gonna have to get a damn camera, not enough time to capture this, even with just the one color.”   
  
Peter flinches back, ashamed, and Steve clucks his tongue before chiding, “It’s supposed to feel that way, Peter. You’re supposed to like it, want to move with it, want to feel more of it, like that. That’s how bodies are designed. These are called testes, you know, and they’re tucked inside this skin, called a scrotum. The skin’s usually covered with some hair, after puberty, but, well, my Bucky takes care of that for you, doesn’t he?” he asks casually, fingers still pressing.

The question steals Peter’s air away, but he gasps, “Usually, yes.”

“Why does he do it, Peter?” asks Steve quietly.

“T-tony likes it,” Peter answers, confused. “He does it b-because Tony-”

“Tony likes it,” agrees Steve. “I like it too, but he wouldn’t do it just for me, not every day, would he, Peter?”

Peter frowns. “I- I don’t-”

“I’m just trying to make it clear, Peter, that’s all. You like it?”

Peter shrugs and tells him, “I don’t care anymore, I guess. I- I don’t mind it, I guess.”

“Well, that’s good. But you did mind it, didn’t you? At first?” asks Steve with a quiet intensity that makes Peter frown again, despite the pleasant things Steve’s fingers are doing to his lower half.

“Yeah,” admits Peter. “I guess I did.”

“And it still happened, right, Angel?” presses Steve. “You got used to it, but it still happened even when you didn’t like it?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, confused.

“Just establishing stuff, Peter,” Steve tells him calmly. “Just making you aware, just because you don’t like something, if Tony likes it, you might as well get used to it, just like the shaving, understand?”

 _Oh_.

“Oh,” says Peter, in a small voice.

“Just pointing it out,” says Steve slowly. “You didn’t like the first time Harley put his mouth on you, I heard about it, how you jumped around and didn’t know what to do, but I saw you run up to your room with him yesterday after swimming, you don’t mind it now, do you?”

It’s not really a question, said in that teasing tone of voice. Peter blushes and says, “No. I don’t mind his mouth, now.”

“Well, the things Tony’s going to want to do with you next will be like that, Angel. Exactly like that, in fact.”

 _Oh_.

“Oh-okay,” stammers Peter.

Steve continues to massage his balls- his _testes_ and _scrotum_ \- for a few long, slow minutes, as Peter relaxes again, before his fingers slide up and grip the base of Peter’s dick. “Pecker,” Steve says quietly. “And dick, and cock, and Johnson, and willy, and a hundred other names, I’m sure Harley’s got a list somewhere and studies it at midnight on Tuesdays. Your penis, Peter, you been introduced?” He strokes it up and down, and it’s not a surprise to Peter that it’s not floppy, that it’s hard and straight in his grip, already, with all the talking and- and touching that Steve has done so far.

“I- I have, sir,” gasps Peter, shuddering a little, arching up with his hips.

Steve’s smiling again, Peter can hear how it stretches his voice when he answers, “Good Angel. I know Bucky’s been asking you to learn your own dick, and what it likes, when he does that daily shave.” Peter nods, mouth dropping open to pant as Steve strokes him smoothly, casually, his voice completely calm and tinged with amusement as he adds, “And I bet Harley’s got his own ideas about you learning your way around your own pleasure, too. Maybe Tony’s told you to figure it out, too.”

Peter nods, gasping. Steve’s hand continues to stroke until Peter shudders with each pull and then he stops, pinching the tip gently with one hand, making Peter whine. “Ah, ah, ah, we’re not here for that, we’re here for an anatomy lesson, Angel,” he teases. Peter blows out a breath and groans. Steve chuckles, “Aww, all right. Maybe when we’re done. So what kinds of things does yours like best, Angel?”

Peter’s skin enflames as he considers how to answer that- how do you- how does _anyone_ answer that?

Steve’s fingers play idly with the tip while he waits, his other hand dropping back to the base, holding it firmly but not too tightly, the pressure gentle. “C’mon, Angel,” he says after a long moment. “You don’t want me to start the demonstration of all the things yours won’t like, do you?”

 _Oh, God_ \- “No, no, sir,” blurts Peter. “I- it likes, uh, w-wet. It likes when you use oil more than when you just- when you just-”

“When I just stroke up and down,” agrees Steve. “It likes the wetness of oil, sure. Women’s parts, they come wet, Angel. So makes sense that dicks like things that remind them of what’s natural to ‘em. Wetness is part of that. What else does your little pecker like?”

“Is it little?” asks Peter abruptly, in a rush, cheeks glowing again.

“Smaller than some, but you’re still growing,” says Steve confidently. “It’ll fill out a bit, yet. Probably end up like Clint’s, just the right size, Natasha says.”

Peter's going to die of blushing, if this lasts much longer. “Okay. Just-”

“Bucky and me, we’re a bit bigger,” offers Steve. “Bucky’s a little thicker, and I’m a little longer, than what’s usual. But think about Harley’s. He’s not much thicker than yours, and no longer. And Clint’s a little longer than you right now, but not much thicker. They come in all sizes, Angel. Ain’t any one of the sizes bad.”

“Oh,” says Peter.

“So what else does your littler one like?” asks Steve calmly, shifting on the couch beside Peter, drawing Peter down further, pulling one of Peter’s legs behind him on the couch and draping the other one over his knee.

“H-heat?” gasps Peter.

“Mm, yeah. A hot, wet mouth, or a hot, oily hand, right Angel? Rile you up just right?” asks Steve.

“Y-yeah,” says Peter, thinking about that, thinking about Harley’s hot wet mouth, and Steve’s hot, oily hand, and how he’d been riled by them.

“You keep skirting around the most important thing, Angel,” chides Steve, flicking the tip of Peter’s dick with a finger and tightening the hand at the base of Peter’s cock. He gives one long, high-pressure stroke, up and down, and Peter’s helpless, he has to follow the motion with his hips. Steve chuckles, “Need another hint?”

“Movement- pressure- _movement-_ ” bursts Peter, shaking his head under his arm.

“Yup,” agrees Steve. “Movement, like this,” he says, and then rewards Peter with a series of steady strokes that make Peter grunt and groan, pulling noises from Peter’s throat that make him blush and shake. “Good Angel, always good to let me know you like how I touch you,” he says reverently. “Always so good for me.”

“Y-yes, sir,” stutters Peter, completely brainless but hoping agreement means they’re done talking now and Steve’ll keep going.

“Keep being good, we’re moving on to things you don’t know about,” advises Steve, dropping a hand and lifting Peter up abruptly, shoving a small cushion under Peter’s back and butt. “There, that’ll make things easier.”

Peter shifts on the cushion, uncomfortable, frowning. “Now, women, like Natasha, they’ve got a slit in their flesh, runs right here,” says Steve in a calm voice, his hand trailing from behind Peter’s balls to his butt. “It’s built, like I said, to be wet, and it’s warm, and when a man pushes his dick in, it’s pretty close to the Glory of God, I swear, Angel. Well, for most men and their dicks. There’s exceptions that don’t like it, but it’s got everything most dicks want, Peter. And when you’re married, well, someone- Tasha, probably, will take you aside and teach you how to make sure you make the woman feel good pressing inside her like that.”

Peter nods seriously, filing away that information. As intimidating as it is to think of Natasha in, in that way, it’s also comforting to know someone’s already thinking up ways to help him be a good husband, someday.

“But why Tony wants you, Angel, is this, right here,” says Steve, and his finger trails down a little further, pressing gently on the button of muscle just there. Peter gasps, shocked. No one’s supposed to touch that except to wipe it and wash it, he’s pretty sure. “Yeah, proves you’re an innocent, don’t it? Can’t fake that reaction,” muses Steve, his hands leaving Peter’s body for the first time. There’s a sound then, familiar, but Peter can’t place it, as Steve continues, “And maybe I’m wrong for taking this, maybe Mr. Stark wants it, but I want you calm and confident tomorrow, for him, so I’m going to show you something, make you a little eager for what he’s got planned. Your hole, right here, is just like a woman’s slit, Angel, it’s warm and when Mr. Stark slides into you, it’ll have movement and pressure just like you said your dick likes. But you don’t make enough wetness, there, so he’s going to add a little oil, like this,” says Steve, and then his fingers return, rubbing oil everywhere around the- Peter’s hole. 

Peter squeaks, a high-pitched noise of surprise, and Steve chuckles again. “Yeah, it’s a shock, the first time, bound to be. This is what all the fuss is about, Peter, why everyone’s so mad about men lying with men. It’s not the lying together part or even the kissing part, or even, really, the takin’ a man in your mouth part. They say it’s not natural, a man being with another man, putting a dick here, in your hole, but anatomy says different, and you want to know how I know that, Angel?”

Peter nods his head a little nervously. Steve’s finger presses, slowly, pushing _inside,_ gliding the liquid oil everywhere, making Peter frown because it feels so _strange_. Steve keeps pushing, and pushing, until Peter’s teeth are gritted and he wants to shout for Steve to stop, already. But then the finger does _something_ , presses on _something_ , and lights up fireworks behind Peter’s closed eyes, making him cry out with the sheer overwhelming pleasure of the sensation. Steve makes a very satisfied little noise, deep in his throat, before clearing it to say, “ _That’s_ why. You tell me why God would put that in there, if he didn’t mean for you to like having a man inside you, Peter?”

Peter gasps as Steve continues to make bright sparks light up, just one finger rubbing insistently. “N-no- Steve- no- I don’t know- I-”

Steve chuckles, “Yeah, feels real good, huh, Angel?”

“Y-yes,” hisses Peter through clenched teeth, his head stretched back and hands both fisted. “Yes, Steve.”

“Knew you’d like it. Could tell, looking at you that first day, you’re the type. So could Bucky. Some can’t, you know, can’t relax and like it, or whatever it is that you do. But then there’s boys like you and Harley, and heck if I know why, but you’re _made_ for it,” says Steve, his voice so low and rough it’s almost a growl.

He rubs, and rubs, one of his hands coming up to tug on Peter’s dick a little, too, and Peter’s moaning and whining before he slows to a stop, leaving Peter wrecked and needy in front of him. “So now you know, and when Tony wants to stick his dick in you, you’ll know what he means, and what he wants, and that it’ll be good for you, too, Angel, don’t you know that, now?”

“Yesss,” hisses Peter, as Steve pulls his finger out and says, “Stay still.” Peter can feel Steve’s body shift as he leans forward, reaching for something, but he doesn’t care, because his hole is still slightly loose and his limbs are shaking, his breath catching painfully in his chest as he struggles not to scream at Steve to touch him. 

After several long, quiet minutes, the panicked frenzy subsides and he gasps, “Sorry, sorry, Steve.”

“Naw, just wanted to get that one, too,” says Steve in an absentminded voice. “Nearly- there. Got it. Now. You got any more questions?”

Peter hesitates and then asks while wincing, “How- Steve, your finger’s a lot smaller than Tony’s dick!”

“Glad to hear it,” laughs Steve, and then he says, “he’ll stretch you some, it’ll fit, I promise. If Harley can take Bucky in, can take me, you can take Tony. And now you know you’ll like it, it’ll be easier to relax while he’s doing the stretching.”

Peter hums, his body buzzing with need and wants and confusion.

“Can we be done talking?” he asks plaintively.

“Yeah, Angel,” says Steve huskily, his hands shifting quickly to Peter’s dick and his balls, rubbing and stroking. Peter yelps and then moans, hips lifting in quick thrusts. “Enough wet for you? Enough hot, wet, pressure and motion, Angel?”

“G-god, yes, Steve,” hisses Peter. 

Steve smacks him on the thigh. “None of that. No taking that name in vain, not in this house.”

“YES, Steve,” corrects Peter instantly, coloring. “Yes, sir, sorry, sir, sorry.”

“No need to carry on, just fix it. Spill when you want,” he says, voice thick, and then he says nothing, tugging and pulling with an insistent rhythm that rips through Peter as quickly as the fireworks earlier had done.

Peter whines, high-pitched to his own ears, after a few short minutes, and then spills, gasping, shaking, into Steve’s hand. “Angel,” mutters Steve. “Now that you know what you know, here, look at me-” Peter lowers the arm over his eyes and stares up at Steve, shocked and flustered. Steve’s intense blue eyes bore into his as he says firmly, “I’m going to spill into you, after Tony, every chance I can make, and you’re going to love every minute of it, Angel.”

Peter, gasping and shaking, only nods, his throat closing with emotion. Steve nods back and then sits back with a sigh. 

“Well, suppose the boy’s’ll be looking for us, wanting a swim,” he says nonchalantly. “You up for it?”

Peter feels scandalized, and it must show on his face, because Steve gives a little laugh and tells him, “Harley has a man in him most days, Peter, between all of us and how we live. Some days more than one, some days, well, I can see why he went out looking for his Angelside balance. You’ll get used to it, too, promise. Best way to begin is to just, well, jump in. Come swimming. It won’t show, what we just did. I promise.”

“Oh-okay,” mutters Peter, blushing, letting Steve pull him up. Steve kisses his cheek, fondly, and says, “You’re a good Angel, Peter Stark. Just keep being good, that’s all you gotta do.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbles Peter, and Steve kisses his cheek again, whispering, “Good Angel,” before lifting them both up to stand. “Here, put these back on and lose the shirt,” Steve suggests, passing Peter the crumpled up drawers and pants. “It’s too hot for more stitches than you need. C’mon, the boy’s won’t have waited on us.”

Peter swallows, and slides the drawers and then the pants on, Steve helping in his smooth way to snap the suspenders back into place. “C’mon swimming,” Steve coaxes, one last time, like it’s not already decided that Peter will go wherever Steve pulls him, do anything Steve asks.

“Yes, sir,” Peter tells him, and follows him to the stairs.


	4. Sky Blue

The morning of Peter’s birthday, Harley rolls over abruptly, covering both of their heads with the sheet, and places a gentle kiss on Peter’s half-awake lips. The kiss deepens, and deepens, as Peter wakes up, until finally he pulls away to gasp, “Hellcat!”

“Naw, just Harley,” whispers Harley, his eyes alight. “Told Mr. Stark I’d have you up at dawn, for your birthday present.”

“Harley, I said- I don’t- I like it when you _want_ to do-” stammers Peter, heart whirling.

“Nothin’ like that,” laughs Harley, shaking his head, his eyes sparkling. “Nothing like- Tony’s got you for tonight, ain’t gonna spoil that for him, going rounds with you this mornin’! Hell, Angel, he’d skin me!”

“Oh,” sighs Peter, feeling the blush rise up to burn him, his heart settling down to a much slower rhythm. He cocks his head to consider the merriment on Harley’s face. “Well, so, what is my present then?”

“Ain’t telling, can’t make me, I’m no stoolie,” returns Harley stoutly. Peter smiles at him and whines, “But, Harley,” in his most annoying tone, the one he, well, he’d be ashamed to let anyone else hear it, but everyone in the family wing seems kinda amused by it.

“None of that!” says Harley with mock sternness, dropping the sheet to tap Peter on the nose. “None of that, my boy!”

“ _Your_ boy?” calls Tony, and Peter’s relieved to hear Harley yelp with him, their arms flailing together at the sheet as they sit up.   
  
“Tony!” gasps Peter, because he’s never seen Tony up so early, and looking so rested.

“ _Whose_ boy?” asks Tony, stalking closer to the bed looking incredibly dapper in a striped suit, rings already on his fingers and using a flashy cane for emphasis.

“Tony!” says Peter again, because Tony is an absolute sheik, he’s gorgeous, with his hair already slicked and his mustache and beard groomed to edges so sharp they could cut.

“That’s right, _my_ boy,” agrees Tony. “Little unorthodox in the response, but I’ll allow that it’s factual.”

Harley blows out a breath while rolling his eyes and mutters, “I said I’d have him up for you!”

“You did, and I thank you, that was a sweet scene I just watched play out,” Tony says in a saccharine tone. “C’mon over, Peter, I got a wolf to wake up, and then Pepper’ll have at you with your suit, breakfast is already laid out in our room. Not a minute to waste on your special day.”

“Tony,” drawls Peter, considering Tony from under his lashes, “will _you_ tell me what my present is?”

“No, and neither will anyone else, if they know what’s good for them,” growls Tony, and Peter shivers, looking at the man standing there, at the center of his Empire, radiating power and prestige and controlled menace.

“Everyone likes a surprise, Peter, and this one is the best,” declares Harley. “Why, when Steve said it was gonna be Sa-”

“Can it,” grunts Tony, with a dark look. “Not. One. Word.”

“Aw, nothing?” ask Harley, his face falling into a pout. “Not even-”

“Nothin’,” agrees Tony.

“But it’s-” protests Harley.

“Nothin’,” repeats Tony, but instead of looking angry, he looks amused. Peter watches them, back and forth, and says, “Okay, Tony. I’ll- I’ll get up.”

There’s a pause then, as Harley pushes back the light covers and hops from the bed, padding over to the dresser to pull on a pair of pajama pants. Tony looks at Peter, tapping his fingers on the cane, clearly waiting.“Oh, for-” snorts Harley, coming back across the room, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at Peter as he crosses in between Tony and the elaborate brass footboard of the bed. “-get up, you boob, he’s seen it all before!” He pushes into Pepper’s bathroom and calls, “He’s up, we’re up, what’s on the griddle?” before shutting the door behind him with a firm hand.

“Some problem, Peter?” asks Tony archly.

“N-no, sir,” says Peter helplessly. Tony wanders nearer, hooking the head of the cane in the brasswork and resting one elbow on the bedframe. He tilts his head and rests his chin on his fist, musing, “Just, you seem like you don’t _want_ to get out of bed, son.”

Peter mutters something that he knows is going to be too quiet for Tony to hear under his breath, and sighs when Tony takes that as he cue to round the end of the bed and come stand on the side nearest Peter. “What was that?” he asks Peter with mock sincerity, leaning in with false concern.

“I’m not wearing any-” mutters Peter a little louder, pausing to glare up at Tony and add firmly, “any _drawers._ ”

“You’re not?” gasps Tony, pressing one splayed hand to his chest in shock while his eyes twinkled above. “My, my, my, son, don’t you know that’s _lewd_? There’s States where that’s illegal, son, you won’t want to get in a habit of it.”

“I didn’t go to _bed_ without ‘em,” mutters Peter, rolling his eyes at Tony’s playacting. “I had ‘em on! Just-”

“What in the world! Drawer thieves, in _my_ house?” gasps Tony, pretending to stumble with the shock and sitting on the bed beside Peter’s legs. 

Peter snorts, “If there was such a thing as a drawer thief, he’d live in your house, Mr. Stark, he really would.”

“So how’d you lose the drawers, then, baby?” teases Tony, his dark eyes flashing at Peter in a way that makes it hard just to _look_ at him, to be this _close_ to him. “C’mon, tell daddy a sweet story.”

Peter immediately flushes, his whole body hot and tight. He can’t look at Tony, and he can’t _talk_ like Harley, so he says, “No story to it, just, you know how Harley gets.”

“I do, the boy’s a wonder,” agrees Tony. “One minute he’s mad enough to claw my eyes out and the next minute he’s clawing to get in my pants, he’s a whirl, is our Hellcat. He whirl you some, baby, last night?”

Peter considers his options. “Yeah,” he admits, finally, quiet and low. “Some.”

Tony slings an arm around Peter’s shoulders and says, “Then it’s time for a little walk, called the walk of shame, baby, for letting our boy whirl you. Go on, walk on over and pick out some pants to wear for Pepper, so she don’t faint straight away. I’ll just wait here and watch out for any drawer thiefs.”

Peter takes a breath because _dammit_ , the man is awful, but he’s also grinning just a little because Tony’s ridiculous, when he’s decided to be charming.

“I ain’t judging,” Tony offers with a bright smile. “Had to walk it many a morning, myself.”

“Figures,” mutters Peter, before shuffling off the covers and popping into a quick stand, moving as quickly as possible to the dresser to yank open the drawer. He grabs the first pants his hands land on and slides them up his hips before he realizes that- of course- they’re the pair Pepper gave him, with the Stark monogram, and several sizes too big for him, yet. He sighs and tightens the drawstring, bending to roll the cuffs, and then decides it’ll do. He’ll have to grab for them, but they’ll do.

“Well, well,” purrs Tony, walking up behind him on quiet, gliding feet. “Looking good, baby boy, in my pajama bottoms,” he comments, nodding at the mirror. 

Peter glances in the mirror and feels caught, as Tony leans in behind him, putting his chin on Peter’s shoulder, and sliding his hands smoothly around Peter’s waist. “First birthday as _mine_ ,” he murmurs quietly, his dark eyes steady and piercing, fixed on Peter’s in the mirror. His hands rest lightly on Peter’s stomach, caressing in little circles while he speaks so lowly Peter’s lips part in anticipation of the next word, fascinated at how Tony looks in the mirror. His dark features look exotic, somehow, in the early morning light, exotic and magnetic, pulling Peter toward him, wrapping him up with the quiet words, mesmerizing him. “Gonna make sure you get the bar set for what it’s like to have a birthday as one of mine, son. Built this whole Empire so I could live in it, me and mine, and today? Today I’m gonna make sure you feel like you’re a part of that living.”

“Cake?” hazards Peter, more than a little breathless.

Tony chuckles, the sound loud in Peter’s ear, the rumble of it rolling from Tony’s chest to his back, making him shiver. “For breakfast, if you want,” he murmurs in Peter’s ear. “Nothing’s too good for my baby.”

His eyes are dark and quiet, as they look at Peter in the mirror, and Peter feels his heart clench, looking back, looking at Tony. He knows just what to say, just how he wants to say it.

Peter licks his lips once, watching Tony’s eyes drop to follow the motion, and then flick back up so that Peter is looking directly at him as he tells Tony solemnly, “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Oooh,” breathes Tony, making a face that’s slightly pained. “You’re not going to last the whole day, I can tell, there’s no way I’m keeping my hands off of you, bold like that.”

Peter nods, feeling a little lightheaded, and then says, earnestly, “What’s my present, Daddy?”

Tony throws back his head to laugh and when he returns it to Peter’s shoulder, he’s still shaking a little. “None of that, baby boy, I said not one hint, and I meant it. Be a good baby boy, now, Angel. Make Daddy proud.”

Peter tilts his head and tries to make it look like he’s considering his options. Tony’s eyes narrow just a bit, alight with the playfulness he’s had the whole time. “Now, now, son, you already got some spankings lined up, for tradition, and about five men willing to help out, don’t go adding to them,” chastises Tony in a teasing voice.

Peter gives up the pretense and smiles sunnily at Tony. “Okay, Tony,” he says cheerfully. “I’ll be good.”

“Knew you’d see reason,” laughs Tony, pushing Peter away from him, away from the mirror entirely, and towards the door to Pepper’s suite. “C’mon, I gotta go wake the Wolf and have him strop up his razor, get you ready in a hurry. We’re on time, and between ‘em, Pepper and Happy’ll keep us that way.”

“To-ony,” whines Peter, as Tony pushes and prods him past the bed. “Even today? Even today, he’s gotta do that?”

“‘Specially today,” declares Tony, his eyebrows flying in exaggerated shock. “You learning how to yowl from your brother? Because I’ll talk to him about that. Don’t need two of you yowling ‘round this place.”

Peter smiles up at him over his shoulder and says, “Phil says to use the tools that work.”

Tony snorts, “You see him winning any arguments by yowling?”

Peter considers it. A slow smile lights his face as he looks up at Tony and counters slyly, “Sure! He does get to spill, don’t he?”

Tony splutters and opens the door, pushing Peter through it. “Get in there. I’m going for the Wolf, tell Pepper, I’m sticking to time!”

“Yeah, yeah,” laughs Peter, glad he’s obviously scored a point. It’s nice to start the day one up.

Pepper is reclined on the couch, teacup in one hand, letter in another, wearing a very smart-looking pantsuit- tan pants tucked into tall boots and a crisp white linen shirt on top. Peter’s mind races. Pants- Pepper in slacks- must mean horses, today. His heart leaps. Maybe Tony’s going to take him out to a dude ranch? He’s heard about them, in books and papers, and he _had_ asked for the trick pony show twice at the circus Tony threw for him earlier that month. 

Of course, she also looks like a jungle explorer, or a scout? Are they going camping? Maybe Tony owns a cottage somewhere, hadn’t they mentioned he had some land upstate? Peter could try _fishing_. Maybe he’d catch a trout or something and they could cook it up tonight!

Peter remembers Phil saying, “If there’s two ways, there’s three, and if there’s three ways, there’s a hundred.”

So maybe Pepper’s wardrobe shift isn’t the best indication of anything in particular, after all.   
  
Peter sighs a little, as he slides into the spot next to her after she pats the cushion.

“Why the long face?” teases Harley, biting into a sausage. “It’s your birthday, baby brother, and it’s gonna be swell!”

Pepper shifts and smiles fondly over at Peter. “Oh, let them have their fun. I promise this is Pepper-approved, you’ll enjoy the surprise.”

Harley nods to two suits hanging on their closet doors, “Wouldja look at that? She’s gonna have us play twinsies today.”

The suits match hers- tan twill, looking heavy and rough and rugged, crisp white shirts, and tall boots on the floor underneath them.

“Alas that Mr. Stark refused to don his travel clothes, and make it triplets,” sighs Pepper a little regretfully, before wrinkling her nose at Peter.

Harley grins back at her and says, “Three of us on your hands? You can barely handle me!”

“I'm so glad the Wolf will be there to take care of any handling you might require, Harley Stark,” she says quellingly.

Harley snaps another bite of sausage with a smile that shows too many teeth and grumbles, “Won’t need handling, today. ‘S Peter’s birthday. There’ll be cake.”

“And hopefully you will be invited to eat it,” she tells him brightly, setting her teacup on the side table.

Peter begins to feel there are undercurrents swirling between the two that he doesn’t want to get caught in. He quickly reviews the past week, and realizes he hasn’t seen them together since the night of the fight, when she’d pursed her lips tight and pinched before saying, “Take Peter to your room, Steve, please, be a dear,” her arms crossing her body and her eyes narrowing at the scene. There’s been meals, sure, but Harley had been all over the place at the table, depending on the day- all over the place except at Pepper’s end of the table. _Oh_.

Well, Clint says he should talk. “I- Harley apologized, ma’am,” he says quietly. “And- and we’re okay now.”

Pepper turns to look at him, one eyebrow lifted, and then reaches out with a graceful hand and pats Peter’s cheek. “And when Harley has convinced me he’s earned _my_ forgiveness for all the fuss and strife he’s caused this past week, _we’ll_ be okay, too. Don’t fret, Angel. Harley and I have a long history of sorting each other out, and we’ve never once drawn blood.”

Harley huffs his agreement and reaches for a croissant. “Dames ain’t like guys, Angel. They’re ten times twistier and the good one’s’ll keep you on your toes, you bet.”

“Gratifying,” comments Pepper wryly. She tilts her head at Peter and says, “Why don’t you go take your suit into your suite, I’ll make up a plate of your favorites and send it with Bucky when he gets here.”

“Aww, Pepper,” mutters Peter, cheeks flaming. “I don’t _want_ Bucky this morning.” He’s mostly sure she mostly doesn’t know what happens when he goes with Bucky, but, well, he’s always reluctant to go with the man, and she must have witnessed that a dozen times.

“Mm,” hums Pepper noncommittally. “It seems he’s in your forecast, regardless. Go on. We’re running on schedule this morning.”

“Aww,” groans Peter again, standing slowly and dragging his feet over to the suits. It’s obvious which one is for him- the shoulders are much less broad, the waist a little thinner, and the monogrammed handkerchief in the breast pocket declares PS versus HS. He grabs the smaller of the two sets of boots, as well, throwing the clothing over one shoulder by the clothes hanger.

“Two donuts?” he asks Pepper, passing behind her on his way to the bathroom door.

“Three,” she promises, nodding once.

Peter sighs wordlessly and trudges through Pepper’s bathroom to his suite again.

He has just hung the suit on the closet door, after digging through the dressers to find matching socks and drawers, when he hears the click of the suite’s door handle turning. He sighs, and looks at himself in the mirror. Time to face the Wolf.

Bucky stalks in, looking as sharp and as put together as if he’s been awake for hours. He smiles at Peter and then tilts his head, clearly reading all the signs of Peter steeling himself for a talk. “Okay, Angel,” he says gruffly. “We doin’ this the hard way? On your birthday?”

Peter hesitates and then shakes his head. “No, I’ll-” his lips quirk up in a small smirk- “I’ll be good and be quiet.”

Bucky stalks closer, his frown growing. “Something eating you? On your birthday?” he asks lowly. “Know I didn’t have time, yesterday, to give you a shave, but I knew it was on Pep’s schedule for today, figured you wouldn’t-”

“Oh, just, just something Mr. Barton said,” mutters Peter, his gaze shifting around the room, his heart beginning to beat quickly.

“Clint?” grunts Bucky in disbelief, head cocking to one side. Peter can’t make himself look directly at the man, but he knows without having to look that the man’s eyes are narrowed in thought. “What’s Clint got to do with what I’m seeing in front of me?”

“Just- just-” stutters Peter, and then reminds himself that he _knows_ how to talk to Bucky. “Just that a guy’s got a right to be mad about his stuff getting wrecked, that’s all.”

“You went dragging all that to Clint’s doorstep, Angel?” asks Bucky, shaking his head. “Thought we’d buried that hatchet?”

“W-we did,” agrees Peter, holding his ground as Bucky shifts closer. “I just-”

“You just what, Angel?” asks Bucky in a low, rumbling tone.

Peter looks up into Bucky’s eyes and wills himself _not to cry_ for once. “I just think as long as I’m not hurting anything, I should get to be mad, that’s all. Not my fault Harley can’t handle when I’m- I’m feeling cold.”

Bucky rocks back a second, eyes widening a bit from their squint. See? Peter _knew_ he’d been narrowing his eyes, he _knew_ it. “Uh-huh,” he says, sounding unimpressed. “Not your fault.” The man takes a deep breath and then says roughly, “I don’t much deal in fault, around here, Angel, don’t know if you’ve noticed. Stark didn’t hire me on to sit judge and jury on what’s right or wrong. He hired me on to solve problems that need solving. Kept me on because I’m quick and efficient and he finds that valuable. Man’s got a lot of problems, Angel, and most of ‘em you’ll never hear about -him either- because someone else takes care of ‘em. Harley stirring everything up just as Boss was getting ready to climb into bed with the Missus, well, that’s a problem, Angel, think you’ll agree.”

Peter nods. That _is_ a problem. He stands his ground, though, because, well, he thinks he’s got a good point about _Peter being mad_ not being the problem in that scenario.

Bucky blows out a breath, hot and frustrated. “So if the problem is you two havin’ a tiff, best to put paid to the tiff.”

Peter frowns, just a little and ventures, “But, Bucky, when- when we was done, when you was done, we were both- we still weren’t done fighting.”

“Harley was done fighting in a way that makes problems,” Bucky growls.

“For you,” Peter points out, feeling awfully brave, remembering the sound of Clint saying, _Bullshit_ and letting it straighten his spine.

“For me,” agrees Bucky, rocking back on his heels a little, the set of his shoulders abruptly looking awkward instead of menacing.

“But you’re not- you’re not everyone, Bucky,” Peter points out quietly, trying to sound as reasonable as he can. “So if it’s still making problems for someone, then- then maybe you didn’t solve anything. And- and- Harley and Pepper are _still_ fighting over it, or over something, anyway, and you’re not in there shaking _Pepper_ and saying Pepper doesn’t have a right to still be mad.”

Bucky stands silent.

Daring, Peter glances up through his lashes at the older man. “I d-don’t mind you, uh, when he broke the window and the things- if you gotta whip him, you gotta. He’s got rules from you about how he, uh, acts. But if he’s in trouble with me, I wanna- I wanna handle him my own way. And my way is more like Pepper, or- or Phil. You gotta let me have the, uh, time. To do it right,” he finishes, waving his hand vaguely and returning to resting his gaze anywhere but Bucky’s face. 

There’s something not quite right about the explanation, but Phil says you work from their assumptions to your bottom line. Well, if Peter understands what the man is saying right, Bucky _assumes_ Harley being mad and fuming around the place annoying everybody is some big problem that he’s gotta quash, and quash fast, and who cares if right and wrong get quashed in the meantime. 

“Huh,” says Bucky, doubtfully.

“Sometimes fast ain’t efficient, because fast is, uh, sloppy,” says Peter, and then he winces. “I don’t mean it like that-” he says quickly, apologetically.

Bucky hisses and then says, carefully, “Steve says that, sometimes.”

“He does?” asks Peter, his heart beating wildly.

“Yeah. He says, you know, strategy is making sure you only have to charge the hill for the higher ground once,” says Bucky, shifting his weight.

Peter dares another glance up and is caught this time, by the thoughtful look on Bucky’s face.

“I figured you two were in a lover’s spat, figured the best way through it was straight to the end,” Bucky tells him. “You didn’t object too strongly, if I remember right.”

Peter hesitates before saying, “I don’t- I don’t want the fastest way, though, Bucky. I want the way that means when it’s done, it’s done.”

Bucky remains silent, so Peter tries again, “Is that how you and the Captain solve your spats, Buck?”

Bucky snorts and his hands rise to shake Peter’s shoulders a little, “Don’t know because we’ve never had a snit fit like that. Never thrown his paintbrushes out a window.”

Peter’s face cracks a small grin at that image. “Never? Not once?”

“Oh, I’ve wanted to, just, never actually got around to it,” teases Bucky, his dark eyes on Peter’s face. “But, no, Angel. ‘S not how me and the Captain work, kissin’ and makin’ up like that.”

Peter nods carefully, selecting his next words with what he hopes is Phil-like precision. He’ll settle, though, for Clint’s wild words to a pack of mooks about to beat him up, so long as he gets them all out. “So, let’s make a deal, then. Next time Harley and me get in a spat, and you think it’s causing a problem, don’t rush to the end. You made me think, when you said I was throwing my own fit back at Harley. It made me think of all the ways he’d been saying sorry and I hadn’t listened. Hadn’t wanted to listen, even.”

“You didn’t mind the kissin’ and makin’ up,” Bucky says gruffly. 

“I did later,” points out Peter weakly, because the evidence is against him, he knows it. He’s had to be pulled and dragged into everything to do with kissin’ so far, and, well, maybe they didn’t notice a difference. He’d felt one, though, and that- that’s all that matters, really, he decides, lifting his chin and remembering Clint’s _Bullshit._

“I mean, I do _now_ ,” he says, shrugging his shoulders for emphasis. “And maybe I’d have liked it all together, if you’d let us talk some more, hadn’t rushed to solve the problem like you did.” He pauses a moment and then continues, almost in a whisper, “I know that’s why Tony hired you, but, but he keeps you for other reasons, Bucky.”

Bucky makes a sound like he’s taking a punch to the gut and then he sighs. “Well, c’mon, birthday boy. I’ll take that deal, talk it over with Steve, see if he can help me figure out how to get you two to charge the hill your own dumb selves without me having to push you forward.”

Peter breaks out into a sigh. Close enough. “That’s all I’m asking, Sarge.”

Bucky eyes him. “You got that boy to sober up for most of a week. Your ideas are worth taking a risk on.”

Peter smiles shyly up at him and says, “Thanks, Wolf.” He pauses again and then suggests lightly, “Want to hear my ideas on shaving, this morning?”

“Nope,” snorts Bucky. “You already got me twisted in knots, just like Phil, man can talk you around to saying the grass is blue and the sky is green if you let him. Done talking. March to that bathroom, Angel, get the towel on the floor.”

Peter sighs gustily and leads the way, looking back over his shoulder to try, “It was worth a shot, though, right?”

“You miss every single shot you don’t take, Angel, it was worth trying,” agrees Bucky with a chuckle. “Just ain’t going to fool me out of an actual job I’m expected to complete with all them negotiating tactics you’re learning.” He pauses a moment and then mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Not today, anyway,” and Peter’s heart skips a beat, just thinking of that, thinking of him, Peter Park- Peter Stark, talking the Wolf into doing things his way. It’s as heady a feeling as scoring a point off of Tony, as morning kisses under the sheets from Harley.

Peter throws down the towel and slips off the rolled up pajama bottoms, shivering slightly as he does every morning. Bucky knocks around on the shelves, gathering his supplies, unfolding the razor and running the water until it’s steaming hot.

“Lay down, stop stalling,” commands Bucky with nothing but his usual level of irritation.

Peter rolls his eyes and gingerly stretches out on the towel. “I hate this,” he says conversationally. “I can learn to do it myself, you know.”

“And deprive me of my daily joy, listening to you whine and whimper over getting touched?” says Bucky incredulously, turning to face him with the frothy cup and brush in his hands, whipping up a lather. “Why, you know it’s the best part of my morning, watching you splash out crocodile tears and invent new reasons why I should disappoint the Boss.”

Peter rolls his eyes again and puts his hands behind his head as Bucky crouches and then kneels between his legs. “It’s just, it’s some strange, having you-” he hisses as the hot foam is slathered on his sensitive skin “-do something, I mean- I can shave my own face, Bucky.”

“Let you do it that once and you gave yourself that cut,” Bucky points out in a distracted tone.

“Getting cuts shaving is normal,” Peter says stoutly.

“Never cut you once for all your wiggling and sighing and whimpering,” asserts Bucky, his eyes flashing up at Peter with challenge. He reaches for the razor on the sink and Peter holds his breath, eyeing up the blade as he does every morning, a moment of trepidation that jolts him more awake than any cup of sweet coffee he’s ever been served.

“You’re lucky I’m not the type to feel resentful, being negotiated at,” Bucky comments as he brings the razor down for the first smooth scrape of skin. “Real lucky,” he drawls, eyebrows bent in concentration.  
  
Peter shivers and Bucky taps his thigh, “None of that. Hold still, Angel.”

“Be good,” whispers Peter and Bucky nods absent agreement.

As always, the shave lasts forever, before Bucky has Peter sit up so he can lather Peter’s face and get that scrub, too. He wipes Peter down, slow and lingering, chuckling when Peter’s body responds to the feel of the warm wet towel against fresh, smooth skin. “Hellcat read me the riot act last night about tugging on you today,” he chuckles. “So you’re just going to have to will that one away. Try remembering what a bully I am.”

Peter blows out a breath and lifts his face to be wiped down, too. Bucky’s motions are soothing and soft, the same way they are every morning. He rubs a rough hand along Peter’s jaw, crouching in between Peter’s outstretched legs, and murmurs, “Happy Birthday kiss, Angel?”

Peter ducks his head for a second, cheeks blazing, but nods and lifts his chin. Bucky darts in, fast and heated, humming a little as Peter opens his mouth and teases Bucky’s lips with his tongue. Bucky’s tongue gives chase, and there’s several breathless moments, then, that end with Peter’s hand fisted in the back of Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky’s fist clenched in Peter’s hair. Bucky rips them apart and leans back, chuckling darkly. “Yeah, all that big talk, negotiating for what you want, but Angel, ain’t you ever noticed you always want what I give you, in the end?”

Peter can’t protest over the hammering of his heart and the buzzing of his nerves. Bucky nods slowly and says, “Thought so. Get dried off, got a plate for you while you get dressed.”

Bucky leaves, then, and Peter breathes for a moment. _Two points_ , he thinks carefully, because he’s pretty sure he won that round, too.

~~~

Bucky balances the empty plate and empty coffee mug in one easy hand, opening the door to Pepper’s bathroom with the other.

“Hail, hail,” laughs Harley, sprawled all over Pepper’s bed. “Guess if the gang’s all here-”

“Go,” laughs Tony from the couch, leaning forward between Pepper and Natasha, “get out, you’re annoying my wife. Go get dressed and put on the kind of manners I can take out in public.”

“Godsake, _please_ ,” huffs Clint, biting into a croissant. Almost immediately, he ducks and says, “Sorry, Pepper.”

Pepper raises a single cutting eyebrow at him as he reddens and mumbles, “It was a _prayer_ , honest t’Betsy.”

“Now, now, he’s almost healed up, Mrs. Stark, don’t go tearing him into pieces just yet,” chuckles Tony.

“No, by all means,” says Natasha, her accent heavy as she leans back to share a look with Pepper behind Tony’s head, “it is important, as Bucky says, to be consistent, when training men. You give them an inch, they take the mile.”

Pepper hums as she considers Clint before laughing at his squirming and saying, “Well, maybe later. I was about ready to pray for intercession with Harley, myself.”

“He been acting up?” Bucky growls at Steve.

Steve shrugs his shoulder, smiling at Peter and patting the cushion beside him in invitation. “No worse than usual, when he’s wound tight.”

Peter moves to sit next to Steve, the new suit pulling just a little awkwardly at his hips and shoulders as he twists to slide over the couch arm and settle.

“Tighter fit,” comments Happy to Pepper, nodding at Peter over the donut he’s devouring.

Peter stills as she leans forward and narrows her eyes at him. “Yes’m?” he asks nervously.

“Those are the same measurements,” she says slowly. Tony stretches an arm out along the couch back and she leans back into it, saying with satisfaction, “You, Peter Stark, are starting to fill out a bit.”

“Thataboy,” declares Tony. “Took him long enough.”

“Well, I had the original suits made big,” Pepper explains to the room at large with a soft maternal smile at Peter, slightly teasing as she adds, “Room to grow.”

“He’s getting muscle, even, horsing around in the pool,” adds Bucky, ruffling Peter’s hair as he walks over to the empty armchair with a mug of coffee.

“I oughta join you some day, work permitting,” considers Tony. “Ain’t able to have as much time with the bags as I need, days are too hot.”

“You should!” enthuses Peter. 

“He should what?” asks Harley, entering the room. Peter cranes his head and answers, “Tony should join us in the pool!”

“Oh, yeah, like old days, right, Boss?” says Harley, his face lighting up as he walks over to join them, finishing his tie and sliding the pin in it.

Tony grunts, “No, _the old days_ was before I had any sons to horse around with or pools to splash in. You mean to say, like last summer, before we finished up Vermont and started in on Atlanta.”

Harley makes a face and swipes a strawberry from Clint’s plate, biting into it quickly with an innocent expression.

“What is the time?” asks Natasha, her slow stretch showing off the suspenders under her olive coat, her dark, knee-high boots gleaming. She’s _also_ wearing a pantsuit, Peter realizes with dawning appreciation for how the family is turned out, everyone matching in tans and olives, and Tony standing out in a flashy olive-and-tan striped suit. They look like a _set_ , he realizes. Tan for Pepper and Harley and him, and everyone else in olive green.

He narrows his eyes as he realizes everyone else has a scarf. He’s the only one without one, in fact. _Hmm_.

“He’s running late, for his usual way-too-early,” mutters Bucky.

“He’ll be here, and still be early,” replies Steve, unruffled.

“Quarter-til,” Clint says. “Say, why’s he coming here, shouldn’t we meet him at the-”

The sound of hissing drowns out the first syllable of the next word.

“Nix, nix,” chides Tony. “Not one word, Blue Eyes, I mean it. Any of you.”

“Awww,” moans Peter. “I almost got it figured out, with the way that Pepper and Tasha are dressed.”

“You do, do you?” chuckles Tony, and there’s snickering from almost everyone else, too. “Want to enlighten us?”

“No,” spits Peter. “I want you to tell me!”

“Nothin’ doing, son,” teases Tony, waggling a finger. “You’ll find out soon enough. Hey, are those footsteps at last?”

“He’s early,” say Bucky and Steve at the same time in two completely opposing tones of voice.

“He’s always early,” sighs Harley. “It ain’t news.”

“I hold out hope that one day, the fine form of the Detective will decide to relax a little and try livin’ life,” sighs Bucky, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

“Bucky’s jealous,” Harley explains to Peter. “Detective’s Steve’s favorite.”

“I’m not jealous-“ spits Bucky, at the same time Steve laughs, “He _is_ my favorite, that’s true. Only gumshoe willing to arrest Tony Stark in this city.”

He and Tony share a friendly glower as the door swings open.

A man in a tan coverall bursts through, and Steve rises to meet him, pulling him in with a firm handshake that turns into a hug.

“Captain! I live and breathe, you still making this crew tread the straight-and-narrow?” asks the man, his face alight.

“Wouldn’t trade it, a solid 23 hours of work every day,” chuckles Steve and Peter feels a spark of- jealousy?- at how relaxed Steve is with this fella.

The man turns to the rest of the family with the same bright humor and says, “Well, this is swell, gang’s all here, everyone looking picture perfect and ready for the blue skies today!”

Harley startles, and looks to Tony. Peter looks as well, to catch whatever reaction Harley is clearly expecting, but there’s nothing there but a genial smile full of his Sheik razzle dazzle. “Detective, I even checked their pockets,” laughs Tony, rising from between the two women to hold out a hand to the man, himself.

The man- the Detective- considers the hand and then says, “You sure that’s wise, Anthony Edward Stark? I get that close to one of your wrists, might want to throw a bracelet on it-”

“You’d have to catch me in the act, and you know it,” laughs Tony, throwing his head back, a real, honest laugh, as far as Peter can tell. “Got too many morals just to take me down on hearsay alone. C’mon, put your paw in mine and shake,” he teases.

The Detective doesn’t frown- he’s nothing like Rhodey, Peter realizes. Instead, he laughs right back, “Slide me some skin,” and offers his own hand, palm up.  
  
Tony slaps at the hand and the Detective crows a quick celebration. Peter smiles at the sound, and watches Pepper and Natasha do the same. Bucky holds a hand above his head, silently, and receives a slap with a quick quirk of his lips, as well.   
  
“You old dog, you can learn new tricks,” exclaims the Detective, shocked and clearly delighted. Bucky blows on his coffee, looking smug as he takes a sip.   
  
“Me next, me next,” shouts Harley, bounding forward, holding his hand out, palm up. The Detective sighs, “Bringing the Cat, you think _that’s_ wise, Captain?” but slaps Harley’s hand as enthusiastically as he’d slapped Bucky’s and Tony’s hands.

“All right, all right, slappin’ skin with y’alls the cat’s pajamas, I declare it, but let’s not kid ourselves, I’m here on the clock and time is ticking. The cars’ already tuned up and ready for the drive?” the Detective asks Happy.

“Inspected them myself yesterday, they’ll do,” says Happy slowly, clearly pleased.

“Well, then, let’s meet the new kid and wheels up, daylight’s burning, you know,” says the Detective.

Harley giggles, “Peter Stark, meet Detective Sam Wilson. Straightest arrow we allow around here, that’s for sure, old war buddy of Cap’n and Sarge.”

“Put ‘er there,” offers Sam, holding out a hand. It’s sideways, Peter thinks with relief, holding out his own for the usual handshake of greeting. The Detective’s smile broadens slightly as he says, “Well, I feel like I know you, from all Steve’s talked about you, but let’s share space on the ride over and you can tell me more.”

“Careful,” chuckles Tony, “that man there has had interrogation training from Phil. You give him a first name on your latest crush, he’ll have you describing the gal down to length of the ribbons tyin’ her curls within the hour.”

Peter can feel his eyes widen, looking at the Detective, whose smile has broadened and who allows this character judgement to pass unchecked.

Bucky snorts and rolls his eyes. “What the Boss means to say is, fella’s had to talk himself into and out of all kinds of situations, over the years.”

“You missed me, you old dog,” accuses the Detective with a laugh. “My name is Sam, kid, don’t go letting anyone tell you anything different. There’s only one Sarge when Sarge is in a town, did you know that? The rest of us drop it so’s he can take all the blame.”

Steve laughs at that one and claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Well, let’s go. Fuel’s burning.”

“It will be,” laughs the Detec- _Sam_. “Lead on, MacDuff,” he declares, bowing Tony out of the room with more of that bright, cheerful laughter.

Peter’s seen coveralls like the Detective is wearing before but for the life of him, he can’t remember where.

An old army buddy. Huh.

“C’mon, kid,” says Bucky gruffly, jostling Peter on his way out. “Lift the lead weights.”

Steve pushes on Peter’s shoulder and says quietly, steadily, as the rest of the Empire flows around them, “I promise, Peter, nothing but good surprises today.”

Starks keep their promises. 

Peter nods, not looking back at the man who spends most of his time shadowing Peter, anyway, and moves quickly out the door after the rest of the family.

~~~

If the Detective is fishing for sensitive information, he must be an expert at it, because mostly he just asks Peter about his favorite ice cream flavor (strawberry), whether or not he’s a Yankees fan (who isn’t?), does he put relish on his hot dogs (Peter admits cautiously that he’d like to try it once before he knocks it), and the story of his adoption. Peter sticks to the story he’d first heard Tony tell the judge, and catches Tony’s flashing glance of approval as he finishes it.

“Well, Lady Luck’s got her hand on your dice, that’s for sure,” smiles Sam, shaking his head. “Landed in a nice nest, that’s for sure. Cap’n giving you much trouble, being your shadow?”

Peter shakes his head, willing himself not to blush.

“Yeah, he about always had a camp mascot he was keepin’ a close eye on,” says Sam with satisfaction. “That’s just his way, you know, always looking out for the little guys. You know he used to _be_ a little guy? Couldn’t believe it, but the Sarge has a photo tucked away. Wasn’t it your dad, Mr. Stark, had a hand in it?”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable awkwardness, so strange in the happy atmosphere of the drive so far, that Sam turns in the front seat to peer at Tony in the back. Pepper, on Peter’s other side, says smoothly, “Howard did, in fact.”

“Botched it,” mumbles Tony, his hand gripping his cane tighter.

Peter feels his heart speed up, but Sam nods and says, “Yeah, I’d heard something about that. Cap’n seems grateful anyway.”

Tony makes a grunting noise and silence descends until Pepper asks brightly, “Well, Peter, I want to hear all these theories you have about your surprise, give us one? How in the world can my pantsuit be a clue?”

Peter looks up at her, relieved for the new topic of conversation, even if it means he’ll most likely be laughed at for his ideas. “We-ell,” he drawls, to stall.

“Well, nothing, Peter, I’m dying up here,” laughs Happy. “C’mon, kid, show off that brilliant egg you got on top of your shoulders. What do you think the Boss has planned?”

“Maybe horses,” says Peter finally. He shoots a glance to Tony to catch any reaction, but the man is still glaring out the window, so he turns to Pepper. She smiles back at him and says, “Oh, that _is_ a good guess. I do prefer astride to side saddle.”

Peter nods and then says, “Or camping? The boots are so tall, it has to be something where they can get in the way, or- or get dirty.” He frowns a little, trying to judge if Happy is smiling into the mirror because Peter’s close or because Peter is so far off.

“I can’t figure out,” he adds slowly, “if the scarves have something to do with it. We’re not riding in a topless car, and I can’t remember if you need scarves for horseback riding, like, in the country.”

“If there are two ways,” intones Pepper, and Peter smiles sunnily at her and finishes, “there can be a hundred, I know, Pepper.”

“How is Phil?” asks Sam brightly.

Conversation is light and pleasant for the rest of the ride, pleasant and happy enough that eventually Tony joins back in, seeming to shake himself from a bad mood to enjoy the chatter of the others. As the car slows, and he realizes they’re nearing their destination in the middle of nowhere (with large outbuildings- could still be camping, but maybe those are stables?), Peter decides he can see exactly why Steve likes the Detective best. The man is relentlessly cheerful and curious about everything.

Happy parks the car beside a building and everyone hops out- Sam holding the door and offering his hand to Pepper in such a smooth way that Peter resolves to practice the move until he can do it, too.

Tony sighs and stretches, as they wait for the other car with the rest of the crew to pull in. Harley bounds from the backseat to Tony’s side like a yo-yo yanked hard and abruptly returned to a palm. Peter looks around with interest at the huge sheds and the wide, paved road that seems to run out to nowhere.

“All right,” laughs Tony, shoving Harley away from him. “Go ahead, go get ‘em.”

Harley rushes towards the shed’s small door, calling back, “Keep ‘im right there, Boss!”

“No where else to go,” shouts Tony, sounding exasperated, shaking his head.

“He’s wound tight,” mutters Bucky, standing at Peter’s right shoulder as everyone else shuffles around, half-following Harley towards the door, all small smiles and clear glee now that the surprises have begun.

“Nix,” says Clint, shaking his head, on Peter’s left. “He’s fine, Wolf. Ain’t been rude.”

Bucky looks over Peter’s head at Clint and Peter can see a faint tinge of pink light up the edges of Clint’s face. “No, he ain’t,” agrees Bucky eventually, on a sigh. “My boy’s’ve all been real helpful, recently.”

Clint and Bucky share who knows what look over the top of Peter’s head and he lets them, tries to make himself small, suddenly realizing that telling Bucky about Clint’s words may have- may have set Clint up for attention he didn’t want. _Dagnabit._ He hadn’t been trying to get anyone in trouble.

“Glad to hear it,” says Clint eventually, his voice absolutely neutral.

“Boys,” interrupts Natasha, putting a hand around Peter’s shoulder from behind, pulling him slightly back into her arms. “You tryin’ to distract me from the main event?”

“Never,” breathe both Clint and Bucky, all of the tension easing as they smile at her. 

The huge door on the shed is opening, Peter realizes, but before he can feel more than a thrill of excitement, the small side door also opens and out steps Harley again, ambling towards the group. Natasha pushes Peter forward with a firm hand, through the small group of people and out past Tony and Pepper, standing in the front. She pushes him, but when he gets a good look at the people walking just behind Harley, he whoops a shout, darts forward three steps, looks back at Tony in disbelief, and _runs_.

“Peter!” shout both Ned and MJ, flying past Harley. 

Peter’s eyes fill, because they always do when he’s too full of emotion, they _always_ are ready for crocodile tears, drop of a hat, but he doesn’t care. Just this once, he doesn’t care, because MJ’s body slams into his first, wrapping her arms around him, and he has to duck his head into her shoulder and lift her. A half-heartbeat later, Ned slams into both of them and his sudden weight would knock them down, except for the way his arms wrap around both of them and lift _them_.   
  
“MJ, Ned!” laughs Peter in a choked voice. “You- what- how-”

MJ is crying, too, just a little, which is going to make her _savage_ , thinks Peter with grateful relief that here are two people he knows all the twists and bends to. Ned is laughing, shaking all three of them, laughing and laughing. 

Eventually they part, staggering, Peter holding a hand on each of their shoulders because he can’t let go, not now, not when he _has them_ right in front of him. Tony clears his throat right behind Peter though, and Peter’s never felt so grateful to anyone in his entire life. He drops his hands and spins, nearly knocking Tony over with his hug. Tony pats him on the back and chuckles quietly, “Told you you’d like every surprise today, son.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” whispers Peter in his ear, and feels Tony shift. He lets go of Tony and says, “Hey, MJ, come meet- Ned, you gotta, you’re- Harley! This’s MJ and Ned, Steve!”

“We know,” laughs Bucky.

“Hey, Mr. Barton!” calls Ned, his smiling face indicating some surprise. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“Miss all this fun?” asks Clint, gesturing widely around with a huge smile.

“You know him?” asks Peter, as shocked by evidence of his past life and his present one being familiar with each other as he was by the appearance of his old friends in this strange place.

“Yeah, Peter,” says Ned, smiling. “After you, uh-” he shares a quick glance with MJ and says carefully, “ _left_ , Mr. Barton and a whole crew came through the Home, did, like, repairs and stuff.”

“Matron got escorted out,” says MJ gleefully, the light of righteous victory in her eyes, bouncing a little on her toes. “Got three new people in charge, now, it’s _so different_ , Peter!”

“But first it was Mr. Barton,” finishes Ned. “Got us all, like, look at this _suit_ , Peter, we got uniforms now. Every kid’s got a _chest_ , just for all their stuff, Peter! _With locks_.”

“No more socks under loose floorboards, no more loose floorboards,” giggles MJ, wrapping her arms around Ned’s nearest arm and shaking him just a little. Ned smiles even more widely at Peter and says, “You look like the bee’s knees, too, Peter, look at _your_ suit!”

“Thank you,” Peter tells Clint seriously, quietly.

“Just following orders,” says Clint evenly, nodding at Harley.

Harley’s eyes dart anywhere but at Peter’s face, like the expression of gratitude on it _hurts_ him, when Peter turns to face him. “S’just good business,” he says, finally, awkwardly. “Don’t leave, uh, loose ends.”

Unspoken, the reminder of the scene from the message at breakfast spools out into the air between them. Peter nods, wondering at a man who can tell him not to have _any contact_ with his old friends and can be quietly making their lives better.

MJ slides closer, rests a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and says, “Peter, do _you_ know why we’re _here_? Obviously, I mean, we’re gonna be-” she waves at the open shed and Peter’s jaw drops, making everyone burst into laughter. “- _flying_ ,” finishes MJ, as Peter stares at the plane and the people bustling around it in the shed. “But where are we _going_?” asks MJ, tilting her head at Peter.

Peter whirls to look at Tony, who is laughing at him. “Toldja,” hoots Harley. “Said it was gonna be the _best_.”

“Nobody say a single word,” Tony mutters. Heads around him nod agreement and Peter blows out a breath in exasperation, but really, he doesn’t mind it.

Sam walks up to the group- and when had he _left_ the group, wonders Peter wildly. He claps his hands and says, “Well, cats and kitties, get your coats on, we’re fueled up and all the lights and dials are in the green. Me’n Remy been at it since the early hours, giving her a good scour after the extensive test flights, don’t think she’ll break apart on you while we’re up there. You ready to chance your luck?” His eyes are twinkling, so Peter suspects the last images are a joke, but Bucky and Harley both blanche, looking a little green around the gills.

“More’n’ready,” chuckles Tony, as Happy starts to pass out huge, thick wool overcoats from the car’s trunk. Peter rocks back and forth on his feet, so excited he’s almost bouncing in place, waiting for everyone to slide into one. Tony shrugs into his and adds, “Pep’s been rarin’ for weeks. You got room for her up in that cockpit?”

“Always room for a good guest,” agrees Sam easily with an approving glance at Pepper, who smiles back at him brightly. “Well, c’mon, gang, engine’s are humming, up the gangplank and let’s get gone!”

“Are you a pilot?” Peter ask him, as they turn en masse toward the stairs beside the plane. 

“Sure am, did some flying on the first war planes, over in Europe, above these two yuckabouts’ heads,” says Sam. “Been working for the force and keeping my hand in, here at StarkAir in the experimental division. This here is a type of troop transport we’ve modified into the first StarkAir Bus, does two flights a day, one to DC and one back, every day. Nice and fancy on the inside, spared no expense, ain’t a cheap seat in here,” he says, pulling himself up the stairs with more bounding energy than even Harley’s ever shown.

“Tell you what, birthday boy,” says Sam easily, as they enter the cabin, which, sure enough, has rows of leather seats, side by side, each one with a little table folded to one side, and a thick carpet underfoot. “Pepper’s got first shot at the cockpit going out, but if your stomach holds and your nerves stay strong, you can come sit up with the pilots on the way home, you want it.”

“I will be so quiet, I won’t touch anything,” promises Peter rashly. 

“Done deal. See you when we hit pavement in C- where we’re going. You go find a good seat for you and your personal Daddy Warbucks, got it?”

“Yeah,” breathes Peter, looking back into the cabin. 

“Wings up in ten, folks,” shouts Sam, “so buckle in. Someone get Bucky the airsick bag, huh?”

Tony smiles at Peter and waves to the seat beside him, and Peter practically falls into it. He can hear MJ and Ned get seated by Natasha in the row directly behind them, and the sounds of Harley and Bucky starting in on each other over the necessity of Harley wearing the seatbelt. Tony rolls his eyes and shouts back, “On the plane or off it, son!” and the argument either dies a quick death or gets so quiet they can’t hear it over the roar of the engines.

“Here,” says Tony suddenly, reaching for his seat belt. “You come sit by the window, your first time oughta see the sights.”

The plane jerks as they swap seats, throwing them both into each other, and Peter is laughing as he sits back down and re-buckles himself. Tony is, too, he notices, smiling and gleeful as a stranger in coveralls with StarkAir across the back closes the door and winches it tight. He walks up and down the rows of seats quickly nodding and muttering under his breath like he’s counting or taking roll call. He returns moments later, passing something out to every row. When he gets back to the front row, where Peter and Tony are seated, he smiles and offers a jar of what looks like waxed cotton balls. Tony nods and then smirks at Peter, demonstrating how to twist them and shove them in his ears. Peter copies his movements, much more clumsily, and the world goes much, much more quiet around him.

And then… then the plane jerks again, and they’re moving across the road, bumpily. The engines get louder and Peter realizes his nose is pressed to the window but he doesn’t care, the only person who can see him is Tony, and Tony- Tony’s breathing goes funny when Peter calls him Daddy. Peter’s not worried about him thinking Peter’s excitement is childish, is all.

The seat is vibrating under him, and everything is so loud he can only hear the shouts of the others- if they’re talking any quieter than a full on shout, he can’t hear them at all. He feels Tony press a hand to the small of his back and he turns, beaming. Tony shouts, “You ready, son?” and Peter nods, grinning, as the plane _leaps_ forward and he’s pressed back into his seat.

There’s a bounce, and then another one, and then one more, and they’re up, up- and away.

In his wildest dreams, he hadn’t ever thought _this_ would be the adventure.

The world is so small down there, through the window. So small, and so- so _delicate_. 

Peter presses his face to the chilly glass and breathes, thinking quietly that this must be what it feels like to be Tony, all the time, looking down on a tiny, small world, and feeling so powerful.

~~~

Eventually, the world below is just, just the world below, and he shifts back, sitting back and breathing deeply. Tony cocks an eyebrow at him, suave and sophisticated and sheik to the core. Peter smiles brightly and says, “Thank you,” trusting Tony to read his lips. Tony smiles, then, and says back, “Happy Birthday.”

There’s no one who can see them, thinks Peter quietly, so he lets himself stare and remember this moment, memorizing the way Tony looks, dapper and dramatic, the feel of the rich leather seat around him, the vibration of the plane. It’s bumpy, sometimes, like the plane is bucking around on the wind, but then it settles and is calm. It’s just Peter, in this weird little pocket of a world, with Tony, and Tony looks back at him like he’s inviting the good long look.

Peter smiles, and Tony smiles, and Peter thinks, very quietly, that he could kiss Tony, right then.

There’s motion, though, behind Tony, and Peter shies back, only to see the coverall-clad man rush past down the aisle. Peter tilts his head at Tony, wondering if Tony knows what that’s all about, and Tony laughs and then mimes getting sick and gesturing with this thumb back at the seats behind him. Peter rolls his eyes expressively and Tony points to Peter’s stomach inquiringly. 

Peter smiles and pats it and then rolls his eyes again, trying to convey that Bucky may have a weak stomach, but Peter’s is fine. 

Tony throws back his head and laughs, ruffling Peter’s hair.

Today’s probably the best day of Peter’s whole life, he thinks quietly, under the noise of the plane.

~~~

Tony and Peter play tic-tac-toe on a sheet of paper, several times, before Tony stretches a little and checks his watch. He grins at it, and then lifts his grin to Peter, and gestures for Peter to unbuckle and follow him down the aisle. Peter goes, waving at MJ and Ned as he stumbles by. He shakes Steve’s shoulder and makes a sympathetic face at Bucky, who’s doubled over in a crouch against the window, eyes shut. Steve smiles and shakes his head at Peter, _don’t worry about it_ , and then raises an eyebrow to ask, _whatcha doin’ with the Boss?_

Peter shrugs, _no idea_ , and Steve grins, and mouths, _Oh!_ and Peter feels a blush rise up because it sure seems like _Steve_ has an idea. Knowing Tony, it’s not hard to believe that Steve’s probably right. Peter’s heartbeat speeds up, his clothes starting to feel too tight, too rough, too- too _everything_.

Harley is next, beside Clint, and both of them look a little pale and shaky, too shaky to give Peter any guff as he walks by in Tony’s wake. Natasha, in the next seat, beside Happy, looks up and smiles like a cat in cream, and that makes Peter’s nerves go wild.

Ahead, Tony opens a door and gestures Peter to step inside, ahead of him.

It’s a bedroom, Peter realizes, and it’s just as chilly as the rest of the plane. There’s a lower bunk and an upper bunk and a chair bolted to the floor. The floor dips out from under him, and it’s only Tony’s hand flung out just as suddenly that catches him, steadies him, before he falls. Tony’s saying something, but Peter can’t hear it, and then Tony lifts him, and shoves him into the lower bunk, smiling widely.

 _Oh_ , thinks Peter, shocked, somehow shocked, because it’s _cold_ in this room, and they’re bumping around like crazy, but- but he had wanted to kiss the man, hadn’t he?

The whole room dips and spins, and he looks up at Tony, who slides down and says something, something Peter can’t hear. Tony’s eyes are dark, as dark as they are at midnight, as intent, as- as haunted. As yearning. Peter feels his spine relax, filled with liquid hellfire, like it always does under that particular gaze, and nods a little shakily up at the man. Tony smiles, quiet and still, so preternaturally still. He locks the door with a flick of his wrist behind him and mouths, “You sure?” slowly, exaggerating enough that Peter catches it.

“Yes, Daddy,” whispers Peter, loving the thrill of whispering it, knowing no one can hear it. He watches as the man reads his lips and struggles to breathe, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before he opens them to stare down at Peter.

There’s a flurry of movement from both of them, then, as Tony takes off his coat and Peter wiggles out of his, too. Tony climbs on the bed facing Peter, wrapping their legs together and that’s nice, it weighs Peter down even when the plane does a sudden dive or shutter and shake. He throws his coat over the two of them, and that’s even nicer, thinks Peter, sliding closer to Tony, enjoying the heat of the other man under the coat. Tony smiles down, eyes crinkling at the corners, and shakes his head, saying something that ends in, _baby_.

“Yes, Daddy,” Peter tells him, and there’s another flurry of movement, under the coat, as Tony unbuttons Peter and Peter tries to unbutton Tony, just enough, just enough to- 

Peter gasps, and Tony’s head plunges down, covering his mouth and kissing him, deep and possessive, like only Tony kisses. The plane bucks, and Peter can’t hear Tony groan into the kiss, but he can feel the vibration of it, and it’s thrilling, thrilling, to have Tony hot in his hands, to be tugging on both of them, feeling both of them, and everyone on the whole plane is just sitting in their seats, aren’t they, while he and Tony- while they-

God, sinning like this feels so _good_. Ain’t right, that Tony’s hands against Peter’s flesh should feel so right when Peter _knows_ it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong, but he doesn’t stop, just lifts his mouth for more kisses and thrusts when he can, his flesh sliding against Tony’s, letting Tony swallow up every gasp with another bold kiss.

Tony chuckles when Peter spills, whining so loud Tony probably hears it. He chuckles, and Peter can feel it, can taste it in the kiss. 

But he doesn’t hold out much longer, himself, thinks Peter smugly.

~~~

Tony helps Peter to straighten his clothes and clean himself up, pulling a handkerchief out of one of the deep pockets of the coat with a smirk and a magician’s showmanship. Peter laughs and smiles, and lifts his face for kisses when the plane isn’t bucking wildly and throwing them into each other, complicating everything. He feels lightheaded and dizzy and _wonderful_.

Tony straightens Peter in front of him, and then holds up one finger. Peter smiles at him, willing to wait.

Tony nods, and then slips the white silk scarf from his neck and drapes it over Peter’s, saying something Peter can’t understand that ends with _baby_ again. Peter shakes his head, and Tony taps the scarf on Peter’s chest, leaning in to shout, “Earned it, baby,” directly beside Peter’s ear. Peter leans back, looking at the mischievous grin on Tony’s face, and shakes his head in disbelief.

Tony nods, laughing again, pleased, and takes a pull from the flask in the coat pocket, eyeing Peter up again, checking him for wrinkles and straightening his tie. He tips Peter’s chin up and Peter glares at him a little before relenting and puckering his lips. Tony smiles, and his kiss tastes like smoke and whiskey.

When they stumble back to their seat, Natasha and Harley flap their scarves with knowing eyes and slight smirks as he passes by their rows. Peter rolls his eyes at both of them, following Tony, but somehow isn’t surprised when Steve catches his hand as he walks past and tugs. Peter looks down, and Steve looks up at him, and taps the scarf, raising an eyebrow to ask, _you have fun?_

“Yes, sir,” Peter tells him, smiling broadly.

Steve smiles back, settling back in his chair. _Good_ , he mouths to Peter.

Peter nods and follows Tony back to their seats. Tony’s already sat down and strapped himself in, and when Peter attempts to slide past him to his own seat, Tony takes full advantage to give a grope or three. Peter rolls his eyes at Tony and Tony spreads his hands, an innocent expression plastered across his face and his mouth forming the words, _What, baby?_

Peter shakes his head and collapses into his seat, staring out the window and feeling like life _cannot_ get any better than this.

But, of course, he’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my professors, ever: SHOW YOUR RESEARCH
> 
> Behold, my crappy research: youtube.com/watch?v=ZYz8oJHUu7Q and https://www.airspacemag.com/history-of-flight/airplanes-that-transformed-aviation-46502830/
> 
> Educate yourselves. I LEARNED SO MUCH FOR YOU.


	5. Brick Red

When they disembark, there’s two stretched-out cars waiting for them. Pepper says, “Tony, Steve, you go in the front one with Peter, Ned, MJ, and myself. The rest of you can take the second one. Happy, will you be so kind, sit with the driver of the first one?”

“They’re Stark men,” Happy informs her.

“Oh, I know,” she assures him, patting him on the shoulder. “I just feel better knowing you’ve got your eyes on the road for us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, looking pleased by this and heading off.

“Well, Mrs. Stark,” sighs Tony, slipping out of his overcoat. “I do believe these won’t be necessary until later.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” she agrees, holding still for him to take hers, too.

“Happy, the trunk,” shouts Tony, and then he holds out his arm for Pepper. She steps forward and takes it, looking so poised Peter wishes he could take photos like the newspaper men, because she looks like a front page lead scoop, with how the silk shirt billows and the way her hair frames her face. She looks gorgeous, and so perfectly _Pepper_.

Harley slings an arm around Peter’s neck and mutters in his ear, “Noticed you earned yourself one a’ Tony’s scarves, baby brother. Nice trick, ain’t it?”

Peter knocks his head against Harley’s and says, “Got no idea how you coulda earned one, you look as shaky as Bucky, you okay?”

Harley hoots and says, “Save the storytime, tell you later, baby brother. You got your friends to entertain, and they ain’t Starks, are they?”

No, thinks Peter, pulling away from Harley and walking over to where MJ and Ned are standing, talking animatedly with Clint, who seems more than a little overwhelmed. No, they’re not Starks. Their uniforms, as clean and orderly and nice and neat as they are, weren’t tailor made, picked out with Pepper’s careful eye for the weight and drape of the fabric, and her tailor’s obsessive understanding of _this season’s fashions_. They look like drab, grey country cousins, against the flashy coordination of the Starks. 

He pushes a smile out on his face to call, “Hey, Ned, MJ, over here, you’re in with me, first car!”

Ned and MJ turn as one unit and race over, and he laughs at the torrent of excited words that floods from them. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he protests, as they grill him about where they’ve been taken, where they could possibly be. “But I know who does know, and he’s in the car. If you can get any one of them to cough it up before Tony’s ready for the big reveal, I’ll- I’ll eat my scarf,” he laughs.

They look at each other, and mischievous grins begin to glint on their faces.

“Oh, no,” Peter chuckles. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“Deal,” says MJ shortly, and then she and Ned take off at a loping jogging pace, Peter following close behind shouting, “I didn’t mean it like _that!”_

Luckily for his scarf and his digestion, Pepper’s not a weak link and Tony’s lips have practice being sealed shut on bigger secrets.

~~~

They pull up in what looks like a residential neighborhood to a brick building, and Tony leads the charge from the cars. He pulls out his watch, and dangling from the chain is a key, that he uses to press open one of the doors on the front of the building. 

Peter’s on his heels and a little surprised when Tony walks straight through the building to the back. There’s not much in the way of his walk, either, in terms of furniture. The place looks _empty_ , which just makes Peter’s misgivings grow wilder.   
  
He’s surprised until he sees that a big lunch has been set out for them, in the backyard. Then it all makes much more sense. A carefully coordinated lunch, definitely Pepper’s touch with the gentle soups, cold sandwich fixings, and other stomach-soothing but hardy fare.

He’s sitting at one of the tables, finishing up his second sandwich, when Tony leans back, wiping his mouth. He nods at Ned and then the door that’s propped open still. “You like it?”

“Like it?” echoes Ned, confused, while Peter’s heart begins to thump wildly.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t figured out where we are, yet,” laughs Tony.

“I don’t think they have,” says Pepper with a sly smile. “You’re so awfully good at secrets, Mr. Stark.”

“C’mon, take a guess,” coaxes Tony. “Guess the city- guess the state, c’mon, kids, put two and two together.”

“I know,” says Peter quietly. MJ and Ned’s heads whip around to look at him, but he only has eyes for Tony, impossible Tony with his gifts that go _too far_ , are _too much_ for Peter. “Tony, I know,” he says to the man.

“Do you, son?” asks Tony, just a hint of a tease in his voice, just a hint of a pleased smile on his lips. “Well, tell the class,” he says, gesturing widely. 

The whole crew has gone quiet. If his silk scarf slid from his neck, they’d be able to hear the susurration of fabric as it fell. “Connecticut,” croaks Peter, and it’s confirmed when Tony’s eyes crinkle, but he forges on with, “Hartford, Connecticut.”

“Are we?” Tony asks, turning to Pepper. “Is that where we are, Mrs. Stark?”

Pepper smiles at MJ and Ned, who have dropped their silverware onto their plates and are sitting very still. “Well, Peter. We knew what you’d want, of course. And you’ve saved us ever so much money, these last few months. We figured you’d want to spend a little of it, getting your friends settled. They start work, you know, in a few weeks.”

“You bought them a house,” says Peter slowly.

“Duplex, double-sided,” corrects Tony, swinging the watch with the key attached in his hand before unclipping it and tossing it to Ned. “And they’ll be earning it, no doubt, working hard, keeping an eye on things. It’s a good place,” he says, like Peter’s worried about that, “it’s a good neighborhood, mixed, so they’ll be comfortable, not too rich, not shabby, just right for them.”

Peter shakes his head a little, and shifts his gaze from Tony, who is avoiding him, to Pepper, who smiles genially. “We knew what you’d want for your birthday, you see,” she says lowly.

“Had to buy ‘em a car, too,” says Tony, digging in a pocket and tossing those keys at MJ, who catches them and then drops them into her lap like they’re hot to the touch. “Gotta get to work on time, and finding a good spot, well, we’re a little bit off the beaten path here.”

“You bought them a house,” repeats Peter.

“Bought the whole damn neighborhood,” interjects Harley gleefully. “Filled it up with all kinds of families from the plant, for, you know, it’s just smart business, but also, for safety. They’ll have neighbors they know, that way.”

“Some of ‘em,” agrees Tony, still not meeting Peter’s eyes. “Couldn’t quite buy the _whole_ neighborhood but there was a lot of ‘em suddenly up for sale, once we _started_. And then we had a crew come by, fix up some of the dingier ones, put on new paint, that kinda thing, before we mortgaged ‘em for cheap to the Stark Industries employees who needed housing. It’s just good business, Peter.”

“A house?” asks MJ faintly, and Peter can hear every tear she hasn’t shed for years in her voice. “A- a- home?”

“Yup,” says Tony.

“And _that_ ain’t even the _gift_ , Angel,” laughs Harley.

“What’s the gift?” asks Ned woodenly.

“Well, there’s a small account,” says Pepper delicately. “At a furniture shop, a short drive away. I figured you’d- _we_ figured, you’d want to pick out your own dishes. And Peter’d want to help. So the account is the profits from the last month- just the last month, Peter, I swear it!- from his work with the Gilbreths at three of the factories in the New York area.” 

“It won’t buy you everything, but that’s right,” says Tony firmly. “A man- or a woman- ought to make the money to buy the things they fill their home with. Makes you feel proud, to look at a wall and think, _I put that painting there_ , sit at a desk you saved for, bought with money you’ve earned.”

“Oh,” says Ned in a small voice. “It does?”

“It does,” Tony says, bounding forward out of the chair. “So, that’s our next stop, kids. Let’s go, c’mon, daylight’s wasting and we got a lot to do. Pick your teams and start tellin’ ‘em what kinds of things you want. Better do a walk though, so you know what space you’re working with. Ain’t too fancy, but it’ll be yours, and that’s what counts. Good place to start, anyway.” He stops beside MJ’s chair and tugs a large jewelry case out of his pants pocket. “Here, sister, put ‘em with them car keys. You got a license yet?”

MJ looks up at him, frowning, and says, “I will before the next time you visit, sir,” in a firm voice.

Tony smiles back at her and says, “I always do love the ones who come out swingin’. Well, go on, open it.”

She opens it and holds up a long gold chain, with a single key dangling from it. “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” she says calmly, before squinting up at him and saying, “And now what do _we_ owe _you?_ ”

“Don’t owe me anything, it’s all Peter’s money, we just spent a little of it for him,” says Tony shortly, shrugging and waving a hand to direct her to Peter.

MJ hums and narrows her eyes at Peter. 

“Well you don’t owe _me_ anything,” protests Peter. He pauses then, because Phil says _never waste an opportunity_ and he also says _people want to be needed_ , and says slowly, “Except, except keep an eye on the factory. You find out something’s up, and you tell me, MJ. I can trust you, and we-” he hesitates, and looks towards Pepper, who nods permission- “-there’s something going on in the books, something we can’t catch, but something that’s not right.” Peter scoots forward a little, intent, looking between the two of them. “I didn’t know about the house, I swear, but I was going to ask you, Tony was gonna get you the job and then I was going to ask, as friends, if you could keep an eye on it, let me know what you saw. You don’t _do_ anything about it, you hear me? But- if you could-”

“Sure, Peter,” says Ned eagerly. “Yeah, we can do that, right MJ?”

MJ searches Peter’s face and declares, “You didn’t know about the house. So I’ll do it. But this is a rotten trick to play on someone, Peter, dangling everything I ever wanted in front of me.”

“Not dangling, already gave it to you,” assures Tony, and she glares up at him.

“I would have gotten it for myself,” she says quickly, fiercely. “I was aiming us to have it for ourselves, not, not as a _gift_.”

“Nothing wrong with gifts,” Tony tells her calmly. “It’s the strings you gotta look at closely, make sure you want those ties.”

“Please, MJ,” says Ned, like she’s embarrassing him.

MJ shifts her glare back to Peter and says, “You didn’t know about the house, so I’ll do it. And I’m- I don’t have the money for plates and pots and pans and things, not for a house like this, so I’ll let you help _a little_ right now. But I’ll pay you back, Peter Parker.”

“Peter Stark,” corrects Peter quietly.

“Yeah, sorry, that’s what I meant,” she says bluntly, standing up, the keys tight in her grip. “You- one of you help me put the necklace on?”

“I will,” says Pepper quietly, standing. “Go on inside, Peter, with Ned and the rest. MJ and Natasha and I will begin in her half of the duplex. Happy, please stay, we may need heavy lifting, I remember that there was some absolutely gorgeous furniture left by the last owners. You, too, Clint, please.”

Tony claps Ned on the shoulders and gives a little shake asking, “You ready? C’mon, lets go have a look-see,” and Ned is grinning when Peter catches up, grinning from ear to ear and chuckling at everything anybody says.

~~~

There’s a moment, when Ned is passing through the rooms upstairs and shouting at Harley to come see the toilet, when Tony and Peter are standing together in an empty room. 

“MJ won’t- she doesn’t mean-” begins Peter, feeling guilty.

“Girl’s smarter than most,” responds Tony. “Speaks good for her ability to catch something out at the plant. Don’t hold it against her at all.”

Peter sighs a little in relief and then says softly, so that the other man has to stop looking elsewhere and lean in to hear him, “Tony.”

“Yeah, Angel?” asks Tony, drifting closer.

Peter tilts his chin up so he can look up at Tony and he says, carefully, shaping each word to the fullest meaning he can, “Thank you.”

“Happy Birthday,” says Tony again, shaking his head with a small smile and heated eyes. “You like it?”

“Everything so far,” Peter tells him honestly.

“Well, I’m not done yet,” Tony concedes. “You let me know if we get to something and it ain’t exactly what you want.”

“I will, Tony,” promises Peter, because anything else in addition to this can only be too much of exactly what Peter wants.

In the next room, Harley shouts and Ned laughs maniacally. Peter hurries to find out what they’ve managed to break or bust, already. 

~~~

Shopping for furniture is a whirl of Ned explaining, “I don’t care” calmly to the salestaff, who look ready to burst into tears, and MJ growling, “Not that shade of yellow,” and salestaff looking ready to faint because they’re not sure they _have_ it in another shade of yellow. Whatever feminine magic Pepper and Natasha shared with MJ, she’s back to being fierce and direct and has no qualms about ordering what she really wants, provided they can produce it. 

Ned has to have the concept of _basic household necessities_ explained to him, because there’s a painting of a naked woman in a gallery upstairs and he was ready to dump all of the linen budget to buy it before Steve and Happy sorted him out. Peter had been tucked into a huge wardrobe with Harley’s quick hands and mouth making him hot and happy, or he’d have rushed to the rescue, but there’s no need for it when the other fellas can sort Ned out for him. Bucky hauls them out of the wardrobe with a black look and dire warnings, which Harley ignores and Peter listens to solemnly, nodding earnestly as Bucky narrows his eyes even further. When he winds down to a finish of, “You get me?” Peter bats his eyes once, and says, in the most sickeningly sweet voice he can draw up, “But, Wolf, it’s my _birthday._ ”

Harley hoots and shoves him away from Bucky and back out into the hallway to go look at the painting, calling back over one shoulder, “Yeah, Bucky, it’s his birthday!” 

~~~

When they’re back aboard the plane, Peter’s so tired he’s jittery with it, and grateful Steve pulls him down to sit beside Steve for the return flight. Sam walks past and offers with a wave of a hand at the cockpit, but Peter shakes his head and nods at MJ in the seat in front of him. Sam smiles broadly and gallantly helps her to her feet, guiding her to the front.

“That was kind,” shouts Steve and Peter nods. It’s easy to be kind when Tony’s footing the bill, and even easier because if Tony’s paying his bills, he knows this won’t be his last time in the air.

~~~

  
  


He sleeps, he actually sleeps, tucked beside Steve, though all the dips and short dives and constant whistling of the wind. Steve shakes him awake for the landing, running a careful hand through Peter’s hair and tapping him once on the lips with a finger. Peter kisses the finger, quickly, surreptitiously, and blinks himself further awake just in time for the bone-jostling jerk of connecting with Earth again. Steve smiles at him as the engines quiet and pulls out his ear-cotton-wax plugs. Peter scrambles to do the same and his ears are almost ringing too much to catch Steve’s quiet, “You okay, Angel?”

“Yeah,” he says back, swallowing as he looks up at Steve’s face. It’s late, late enough that sunset is just starting.

“Well, still got the drive home, you can sleep then, too,” Steve says. Peter makes a face and says, “MJ- Ned, Steve, they’ll-”

“They’ll be tired, too, Angel,” says Steve, but he’s smiling. “They missed you,” he adds.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, letting the feeling of _being missed_ warm his stomach. “Yeah, they did. And they’re- they’re gonna be fine now, right, Steve?”

“They will. Did you see that Tony put phones on each side of the duplex? A secure party line, Angel, you can call ‘em up when you want to.”

Peter pauses, thinking of the sheer expense of that, of a whole party line just for two houses, and swallows. “I didn’t, I didn’t save us that much money, Steve.”

“Oh, I think they added in Harley’s bail fund and payoffs,” teases Steve. “And while we skyrocketed on ice cream expenses, we been suddenly flush with sidecar cash, this past week, too. You make us more money than just what the Gilbreths bring us, Angel,” he finishes, his eyes bright.

Peter ducks his head and then nods, breathing deeply so the tears don’t well up. Damn his crocodile tears. _Damn_ ‘em.

“Shh, you’re just tired. Been a big day,” soothes Steve, reaching over to undo Peter’s lap belt like Peter’s a kid. “Gonna get longer,” he sighs, smiling wryly. “Tony’s set to outdo the circus.”

“I am,” says Tony abruptly, flying up out of his seat as the plane comes to a stop and leaning jauntily on the seat back, smiling at Peter. “C’mon, son, let’s go, first roadster for you and your friends. Me ‘n Pep’ll take the second one with Harley.”

Peter stretches as Steve stands and then follows the rest of the crew out into the fading sunlight, blinking a little. It takes a second to get everyone organized- Harley and Bucky both have to stumble to the side of the shed to let loose a little more lunch. When Harley returns to the group, he gives a general weak smile and says, “Well, we goin’ home or what?”

MJ, of all people, pats him on the shoulder and looks sympathetic.

~~~

The mansion is brightly lit, so brightly lit Peter can point it out to MJ and Ned from the bottom of the hill. They all stare, wide-eyed, until Ned says, “Peter, you live _there_?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, suddenly uncomfortable with how _normal_ the mansion feels, how much it feels like coming home to look up at its lights twinkling it in the soft early-twilight dark. 

MJ says, quietly, “And what do _you_ owe him, Peter?”

Peter stills before turning to both of them, their faces pale ovals beside him in the dark of the car. Up front, Happy sits beside Steve, and he’s not entirely sure, as quiet as they’re being, that the two of them aren’t listening in. “I-” he stutters, and then thinks, a little angrily, that _he earns his keep_. He thinks it again, _I earn my keep_ , and then he gets mad, madder than he thinks he’s ever been at MJ. 

He's so mad that he can't look at her as the words rush from him in steady flow that he can’t stop, making his guts roil as he just goes on and on, “I- every morning, I get up and I look through the papers, looking for business opportunities, for new avenues of investment, and I, I prepare contracts, with the Board, I talk to all these people and I get ‘em to take a chance, like on the Gilbreths. I saved us $150 an _hour_ MJ, and you’ve never even seen that much money in your whole _life_. I’m learning how to write the contracts, too, Phil and Pepper are teaching me. And then I go up to the workshop, with Tony sometimes, or Clint, he’s the gun expert, and we work on modifications, work on the next Stark handgun, the 1919 is good, but it could be better, lighter, I think, less kick, maybe. And Pepper’s got me doing some secretary stuff, learning how to do her correspondence, and she’s Chair of so many charities, MJ, you’d love it, you’d love learning how many ways she spends Tony’s money, helping people. So, yeah, today’s all about me, about things I’d want and, yeah, I’m being spoiled, but MJ, I _work_. I don’t- I don’t _owe_ him anything. I- I _belong_ to them, to-to- _with_ all of ‘em. We’re _family_.”

“Okay, Peter,” says Ned quickly, in a rush, breaking into a smile. “You really work on the _guns?”_

“I do,” Peter tells him shortly, glaring at MJ. MJ looks back, solemnly, before nodding and saying, in as much of an apology as he’s likely to get, “I didn’t know that, Peter.”

“Phil says I’m the next inventor of the century,” Peter tells them in a burst, because it’s not just his imagination, okay? He _really does earn his keep_.

“Phil’s right, kid,” says Happy from the front, steering them up to the gates, where three men stand in suits and open the gates, letting him through. “Tony talks about it all the time, bragging you up. You already did that thing with the sights on the Stark 1907, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” grates Peter.

“And even Tony couldn’t get that one figured out, and he’s had more’n a decade,” Steve puts in, turning to look at MJ and Ned with a frown.

“No, sir, he couldn’t,” agrees Peter, sitting back as Ned’s face shows that he’s impressed and even MJ looks like she regrets saying anything.

Happy pulls them up to the front door and hops out, to hold the door for MJ. He cocks an eyebrow at her as she stands, muttering something and Peter’s shocked to see her blush and look uncomfortable.

Ned says brightly, “Now what, Peter?”

Peter looks over at Steve, who just grins and gestures for Peter to start climbing the million stairs to the front door. “Only one way to find out, Angel,” he tells Peter, taking up his customary position just behind Peter’s right shoulder as Peter passes him.

“Hey, Angel, wait up!” shouts Harley, and Peter pauses, turning on the stairs, to let Harley jog over and climb up, pushing past Ned with a friendly clap on the back. “This one was my idea,” he says smugly, linking arms with Peter. “So I want to be here for it.”

Peter smiles at Harley and teases, “Oh, no, is it old fashioneds? You know I can’t-”

“Ain’t neither,” says Harley mutinously. “I told you, I’m off the stuff, mostly. Can’t risk another tantrum.”

MJ, climbing beside them, says a little breathlessly, “Tantrum?”

“Oh, when Harley’s on the fire water, he likes to smash things like windows,” Peter tells her, like alcohol isn’t _illegal_ , like smashing windows isn’t _crazy_.

MJ stops climbing and splutters, “He _what?”_

Harley glowers at Peter, pausing them both by turning to MJ to say, “I _usedta_ , Miss. I don’t, anymore.”

MJ considers him, letting a small smile play across her lips as she hums doubtfully.

Peter loves her for the way that Harley splutters and _can’t say nothing_ in response.

~~~

Harley pulls him through the mansion to the doors at the back, throwing them open like he’d done for the circus, too, and bowing Peter into a wave of shouted, “Happy Birthday, Peter!”

Everyone is standing there- people Peter knows, the Salvatore family, every last one of ‘em, Phil, the Judge and what must be his fair flock of birds, Johnny and Ben and- and- just _everyone_ is there, mobsters rubbing elbows with the High Society scions Pepper has carefully introduced him to. Their _pastor_ is there, who scolds Peter every Sunday and implores him to _be good this week_ , and he’s standing next to _Bugsy Malone_.

Peter sways a little, and then Harley laughs and tugs him forward, to one side, where there are churns and churns of ice-cold ice cream and a table of toppings. “One hundred and one flavors, brother, I swear, I made Phil do the math to make sure, if you mix ‘em up, you get one hundred and one _at least_ ,” laughs Harley. “Figured you’d want that more than cake. Still gotta blow out the candle, though!”

Peter laughs out loud and lets Harley guide him through the flavors in the barrels, choosing- what else- strawberry, and feeling a little guilty because that’s the stuff that Pepper hates, says it makes her throat close up and her mouth tingle. But Peter loves it. He tops it with more fresh strawberries, and Bucky slips a candle into it, telling Peter gruffly, “Hold still, gotta light it.”

Bucky strikes a match off of his belt buckle, of all places, and holds it steady to the wick, waiting patiently for it to burst into flame as Peter holds his breath, watching the flame eat the small piece of wood until it’s kissing Bucky’s fingers. The wick catches, though, and Bucky pinches out the flame, dropping it to grind it on the bricks underfoot with a cocky grin at Peter.

The whole crowd sings “Happy Birthday” and Peter chokes up, because the Starks are over in a little clump, all of ‘em, singing and laughing, and MJ and Ned are together with some of the other kids from the orphanage, singing it too, everyone holding delicate crystal ice cream cups.

It’s exactly what he didn’t even know he wanted, is all. Everything. _All of today_.

He takes his first spoonful, a heaping scoop that’s probably going to give him a headache, and everyone cheers, again, before turning back to each other and their own handfuls of sweet treats.

~~~

Hours later, he’s been clapped on the shoulder so many times he’s sure he bruised, and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He watches Steve return to his side and mutters, “Everything okay?”

“Just fine, Angel,” says Steve, leaning close, his breath rustling the hair by Peter’s ear. “Harley and Johnny tried spiking the punch, Bucky’s just gonna go explain what _don’t cause trouble_ means again, that’s all.”

Peter blows out a breath before shrugging, because Harley’s Harley, no matter what. And Bucky’s Bucky, and neither one of them is _his problem_ , for tonight, especially.

He’s been toasted three times, with tiny glasses of apple juice and two types of grape juice passed around, and he’s not the only one to notice there were servers with two different shades of juice mixing and mingling, aiming themselves for one kind of crowd or the other, whirling away from some people as another server offered them something- _else_. He’s pretty sure his second one hadn’t been the white grape juice Ned got served, for example.

“Well,” sighs Pepper, coming up and taking his elbow, leaning in. “I do believe the guests have begun the slow trickle home, Peter. What a crush! You’re the perfect host, as expected. Is there anyone you haven’t given some time to, tonight?”

Peter scans the crowd, noting how drivers in their caps have begun to stand at the edge of the patio, how people are stopping by Tony to shake hands before turning to follow the men in smart uniforms. “No, no, I think I got ‘em all,” he says slowly.

Pepper stays beside him as people begin to come up, saying their goodbyes. She directs him slowly to a wicker bench under the arbor, so smooth in her direction that he doesn’t notice what she’s done until he’s there and sitting, Steve just behind them, silent in the dark. People stop by in ones or twos, or whole groups, smiling and thanking him for the party, wishing him good luck in the next year. Several of the rougher men admonish Pepper not to forget the birthday spanking, with _one to grow on_ , and a hearty laugh at Peter’s exaggerated shudder. 

He wants to put his head on her shoulder and just rest a minute, but everyone streams by, until the sounds of the party fade and the servants begin to cart away the topping table, the barrels of ice cream, searching for ice cream dishes Peter is certain they’ll be finding tucked into odd corners for the next month. Eventually, though, it’s Ned and MJ standing in front of him, shuffling their feet a little, looking as exhausted as he feels. “Hey, Peter, we- we have to get going,” says Ned miserably.

Part of him wants to turn to Pepper and beg a room for them, in the guest suites. But he remembers _this is his birthday_ _night_ , and he brushes past it to stand. “I’ll walk you,” he says quietly.

Pepper says, “I hope he’ll invite you again soon, before you must leave.” Ned is staring at her, and he startles at this, and gulps, and nods wordlessly, but MJ offers her a small smile and an even smaller nod.

“And when you leave, Clint and I will help you to get settled, to learn how to watch,” says Natasha, from the shadows, stepping forward. “We will not leave you to stumble. Not when you feel you _owe_ Peter.” Her accent makes the words heavier than they should be, thinks Peter, reaching out to take MJ’s hand as MJ’s lips tremble and her eyes go wide, looking at Natasha with something that Peter would maybe call gratitude, or, or maybe shame. He tucks her small hand in his elbow, like he does for Pepper, and says again, more firmly, “I’ll walk you.”

Ned falls into line beside them, as Peter winds them back through the house. Steve trails, but he does so in a dawdling way, giving them what privacy he can.

“Don’t you get lost?” laughs Ned.

“Not anymore,” says Peter firmly, because that’s very true.

MJ sighs, beside him, and he lets it go without comment.

They glide down the steps, Peter taking them carefully and slow, the way Clint is with Natasha, the way Happy is with Pepper, thinks Peter. MJ deserves that kind of care, too, for all her dress is a cotton orphanage uniform. 

The red roadster is there, and Happy’s in the driver's seat, Peter sees with relief. Peter opens the door and Ned slides in quickly. MJ pauses, the door between her and Peter, and lifts her eyes to his face. “Thank you, Peter,” she says quietly, an apology in her eyes. Peter breathes deeply, a feeling of relief coursing through him. “Happy Birthday,” she says carefully, and leans forward to kiss his cheek. 

They’re fine now, Peter realizes. She’s- she’s made her decision, and her decision is to be _fine_. It’s so good it makes him giddy as he closes her door. He turns to Steve and calls, quietly, “Can you- can you ride with them, just to be sure?”

Steve tilts his head and looks around like he’s taking stock, and then nods. “Sure, Angel. Would be an honor, Miss,” he tells MJ, through the open window.

“You tell Bucky where I’ve gone,” he says quietly to Peter as he passes and opens the door, climbing inside beside Happy.

“Yes, sir,” breathes Peter, and then he stands there, watching as MJ sits back in her seat and Happy pulls away, taking them down the drive and out into the dark night.

He stands for a lot longer than is necessary, but then he turns, to walk along the path on the side of the house to get back to the patio where everyone is probably stretched out under the arbor. Where he’ll find Bucky and tell him Steve’s gone to take Ned and MJ back home.

He’s maybe a little choked up, and walking slow to let the emotions fade, so the interruption to his walk is a complete surprise.

“Well, little Angel,” crows Johnny Storm, meeting him in the dark and standing in his path, bouncing on his toes a little. “About time I got to tell you Happy Birthday.”

“Hey, Johnny,” sighs Peter, brushing a hand across his face to hide whatever he doesn’t want to show Harley’s friend. “You had a good time? I know it’s-” he waves a helpless hand “- a little more a kid show than you’re used to. You and Harley.”

“Nah, suited me fine,” says Johnny, sidling in closer. “Say, can you tell me something, little Angel?”

“Sure, Johnny,” sighs Peter again, trying to dredge up a smile for Harley’s friend. “Whatcha need?”

“What is it about _you_?” asks Johnny slowly, and Peter’s heart speeds up, looking up at the man’s eyes glinting in the dark and realizing he must have miscalculated, and now he’s here, on the side of the house, where no one else will be, and it’s dark, pitch dark, here in the shadows. “I been hanging around the Starks for years, kid, and I never seen ‘em bend over backwards like this, not once. So what gives?” he says, stepping forward again.

Peter’s too tired for games, too tired to turn tail and get chased, so he stays put, letting Johnny get too close for comfort. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, shrugging. “You’d- you’d have to ask them,” he adds uncomfortably.

Johnny tilts his head and says, “You snap your fingers and Harley comes running, and I don’t get it, little Angel, because you don’t look like nothing special.”

Peter feels a flicker of anger burst deep inside him. “I don’t _know_ , Johnny,” he sighs, exasperated. He glances up at the other man’s face in the shadows and adds, “Look, I’m sorry Harley ain’t drinking and, and _carousing_ with you as much, but I didn’t-”

“Ain’t just that,” interrupts Johnny. “I been watching. You so much as say you’d like something, and it’s yours, _I been watching, kid_. And I don’t get it, because you don’t look like much, is all.”

Peter looks up at him, because that’s not true- that’s not-

“Tony hired you a goddamn circus,” accuses Johnny, taking another step closer, so that now he’s _way too close_. Peter wants to shove him, but it’s his _birthday_ , and he doesn’t want to fight. He’ll have to run, he realizes. He’ll have to push past Johnny or, or turn around, or something. “You worth a circus?” asks Johnny, quieter now, and Peter’s heart stops as he glances up. 

“I know about Harley,” Johnny says, so quietly Peter can barely hear the words. He parts his lips to deny it, but Johnny continues, “I _know_ how he is, I been watching him watch people for years, little Peter Stark, I _know_ how he is. So, little Angel, you worth a circus?”

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing,” interrupts Harley, shoving Johnny back angrily.

Johnny holds up his hands, the light from the patio sliding across his face, while Peter gasps, behind Harley. “Hey, hey, pal, didn’t touch him,” says Johnny smoothly.

“Didn’t _touch_ him,” snarls Harley, affronted somehow by that wording. 

Johnny’s face turns dark and angry to match Harley’s tone. Peter puts a hand on Harley’s arm, to pull him back, away, and Harley shakes him off roughly, saying, “Not now, Angel. Not when he’s sneaking around, in the dark.”

“I ain’t trying to make time with your babyfaced brother,” protests Johnny, laughing like the idea is impossible, but there’s a catch in his voice and Peter closes his eyes because Johnny’s lying, is what Johnny’s doing, and if _Peter_ can tell that-

The punch isn’t a surprise, and neither is the surprised shout from Johnny, “ _Dammit_ , Hellcat, what’s that for? I didn’t _do_ nothin’.”

“You’re a fucking snake, is what it’s _for,_ ” hisses Harley, in a voice Peter’s never heard before.

“Aww, now, Hellcat,” says Johnny, backpedaling a little, until his back hits a tree trunk, hands flying up again. “Don’t be like that. Didn’t- didn’t mean anything, just _talking_.”

“Yeah, well, you’re done now,” hisses Harley, and then he flies forward at Johnny and Peter yelps. The blows are fast and furious, and Harley takes a couple, and Peter needs to get away, get out, but then Harley steps back, several steps and says coldly, “You’re done now, and I’m gonna make sure you remember to stay done, you get me? Angel, you go-”

“What the _fuck_ is this?” growls Bucky, from further up the path.

“What’s it look like?” snorts Harley. “Beatin’ the shit out of my buddy.”

Johnny laughs and wheezes, “And I’m _letting_ him, Bucky, can’t you see that?”

“This ain’t the time or the place,” begins Bucky, and Johnny laughs, touching his nose and glaring at Harley. “Oh, I always got the time, and any place is fine, Hellcat,” he snarls, squaring up.

Harley avoids Bucky, who is rushing forward. But Harley avoids him, and there’s another flurry of blows before Bucky grabs them both, somehow, and slams their bodies together, hard. There’s footsteps racing forward on the path, and then Ben heaves into view, saying, “Johnny went missing and then I heard- ahhh, shit, sorry, Buckster.”

“‘S fine, Ben, just, get him home, don’t _need_ this tonight,” growls Bucky.

“Your mouth get you into trouble, this time, or your hands?” grunts Ben, grabbing Johnny by the collar.

“Both,” say Harley and Johnny in unison, sneering at each other.

“Mouth first,” adds Harley, glowering at Johnny, “since you weren’t _touching_.”

“I’ll touch _you,”_ offers Johnny, trying to shake off Ben’s hold and, to Peter’s relief, being unsuccessful.

“Don’t mind ‘em, Angel,” grunts Bucky, grabbing Harley by the belt and glaring at him while adding to Harley, “You go ahead and try me, with them wild swings, Hellcat. You go ahead and try one with me.”

Harley glowers at Bucky, shaking out his hands and huffing air, ignoring Johnny, who stands in Ben’s hold and glares at him. Bucky says, “Don’t mind ‘em, Angel, they just get too much sugar and find something to do that gets their heads knocked together.”

“Like a damn clock,” sighs Ben, shaking Johnny a little. “Could set my watch.”

“Wish I could,” grunts Bucky. “Be nice to get to ‘em before the blood starts flowing.”

“Your new suit,” groans Ben to Johnny. “Sue’s gonna want me to skin you, you know that, right?”

“Sis can fuck right off,” declares Johnny mutinously. 

“And you can tell her that, and then you can have trouble sitting for a month of Sundays,” says Ben, like that’s an entirely reasonable thing for one man to say to another. Peter gapes, again, because Johnny is a _grown man_ , but nobody ever _treats_ him like one, that Peter can see.

“And you,” grunts Bucky, tugging on Harley’s belt and pants with his fist, pulling Harley further away, towards the back of the house, “you can have trouble sitting _this_ Sunday.”

“Aww, Jimmy,” whines Harley, abruptly shifting his focus from glowering at Johnny, “no, he _deserved_ it, this time.”

“He _deserves_ a punch _every_ time, Hellcat, that’s what being an idjit is all about. Doesn’t mean you gotta be the one to give it to him, which I been explaining for years now. C’mon, Angel, say goodbye.”

Peter startles and says, “G-goodbye, Johnny, Ben. Th-thanks for, uh, coming.”

“Pleasure, truly was,” grunts Ben, smiling a little at Peter. “You stay good for my old friend, you hear me? He don’t need two on his hands.”

“No, sir. Or, uh, yes, sir,” promises Peter faintly. Harley and Johnny both sneer and Peter glares at Johnny for a long moment before snapping, “I am. I am worth it.”

Johnny’s jaw drops as Harley crows, falling into chuckles as Bucky hauls on his belt, dragging him back to the patio, stumbling and shouting at Johnny, “I see you again, I’m gonna remind you, Johnny!”

“Screw _you_ , Hellcat,” shouts Johnny, and Peter doesn’t look back at the sound of a meaty thunk followed by, “Aww, Ben!” and Ben’s gravel voice raised over that to say, “You think Lady Stark should hear them words, Johnny?” and Johnny’s voice, fading, protesting, “I didn’t think of her, Ben, honest, I didn’t!”

Bucky stalks Harley over to the arbor, where the family is draped, enjoying the cool created by the twisting vines, no doubt enjoying the privacy, too, of the servants all off cleaning or washing _somewhere else._ Pepper’s feet are in Clint’s lap, on one of the wicker benches, and Natasha’s rubbing Tony’s shoulders, standing behind his chair, rubbing his shoulders and murmuring _something_ , from the way her lips move. Her eyes flash up to Bucky with annoyance as they approach. “Where is Steve?” she says heavily.

“He- I told him to go with MJ and Ned,” says Peter awkwardly. “I was coming to tell Bucky, right away,” he offers, feeling a little guilty, because the faster, better path would have been through the mansion, he knows that now.

“Mm,” she hums in disapproval, and Tony hisses as her hands dig in.

“Oh, Harley,” sighs Pepper. “I just _bought_ that suit, it’s the first chance you’ve had to _wear_ it.”

“Johnny started it,” begins Harley hotly, but Bucky slaps the back of his head and growls wordlessly. “‘M _sorry_ , Pep,” he finishes quickly.

“You will be,” grunts Bucky, pushing him into a chair. “Sit. Stay.”

There’s silence then, for a moment, as everyone just breathes. Peter feels the cool and the calm creep over him, moving to sit on the tile beside Tony’s legs and propping his head on its usual place against Tony’s knee. Tony’s fingers glide smoothly into his hair, scratching gently, and Peter’s eyes drift shut for a moment that goes on and on and on, enjoying it.

“Well, I suppose we’d better get the last tradition out of the way,” sighs Pepper eventually, setting her feet back down on the patio, from the sound of the wicker creaking. Peter’s eyes fly open and he twists to look at her, trying to hold his head in the exact same spot so that Tony _doesn’t stop._

“C’mere, Peter,” she says, a playful smile on her face. “Come and get that birthday spanking everyone was so sure you’ll need to stay good all next year.”

“And one to grow on,” huffs Harley from his chair. Bucky grunts at him, and he sits further back in the chair, glowering at the world in general.

“Aww, Pepper,” sighs Peter. “That’s kid’s stuff.”

“So’s ice cream,” laughs Harley shortly. “I can do it, if you don’t want Pep.”

Peter shoots Harley a glare and then sighs, standing up. He shuffles his feet for a minute, eyeing up the path to the mansion and potential safety. 

“You run,” says Tony quietly, “and I’ll chase.”

Peter shivers a little, because Tony’s not _Steve_ , is he? He looks over at Pepper and Clint on the couch, Clint smiling at him broadly and Pepper patting her lap, her smile bright and teasing.

“This is _kid’s_ stuff,” mutters Peter, shuffling over to her.

“Yes, and you are _my_ kid,” she tells him, mocking his tone of voice and turning it into a pout. “So, please, let me introduce you to birthday spankings. They’re a Stark _tradition,_ son, as much as, as the crest.”

He shuffles his feet and says, finally, “Oh, I know about ‘em. Uncle Ben usedta-” his voice chokes, suddenly, and he watches her eyes go soft, understanding.

Clint shifts and says, “Well, let her do it, then, because that’s what family _does_ , ain’t it, Peter?”

Peter nods at Pepper, not looking around, not looking anywhere else.

“It should be Steve,” she teases him gently, lifting her arms out to help guide him across her lap. “But you sent him off with MJ.” Her hand slaps down, almost gentle, and definitely ineffective, as she begins the count and the others join in jovially until Peter is chuckling with them and then, finally, as they chant, “16-17-18,” he’s laughing outright, because it’s so absurd.

“And one to grow on,” reminds Harley, laughing.

“Oh, I’ll do that one,” calls Steve out of the darkness. “Glad I didn’t miss all of ‘em.”

Pepper’s chortling, her stomach vibrating with each chuckle, as she tips Peter up to his knees beside her legs. Her eyes are sparkling, and there’s color on her cheeks as she laughs down at him, and he laughs right back up at her, arms resting across her legs. 

Steve’s familiar footsteps ring out on the bricks, the only footsteps that’ve sounded in the long restful dark break they’ve all been taking here together. They draw closer and closer, and somehow the small frisson of anticipation makes everything _funnier_. Everyone’s chuckling and snorting as Steve grabs Peter by the arm and hauls him upright, to his feet. Peter gets a good glance at Steve’s mock-frown and lets loose a wheezing giggle that makes everyone burst out laughing just a little louder. “Oh, no, Stevie,” he gasps, imitating Harley, “not a _single spank_.”

Steve’s eyes narrow playfully and he says, “Pepper, ma’am, can you scoot, just a bit?” and he lifts his left leg to place his foot on the bench. She smiles and slides closer to Clint, who wraps an arm around her, chuckling at Peter’s eye rolling. “Up and over,” announces Steve, gripping Peter by the collar of his suit in his left hand and drawing him over Steve’s bent thigh. Peter struggles, just a bit, choking out, “Oh, no, Stevie, no, please,” before dissolving back into giggles. His protests have everyone laughing again, with him.

But then Steve’s muscles bunch and shift with _purpose_ and Peter thinks, _wait_ , _wait!_

It’s already too late, because Steve’s hand smacks down and the sound rings through the arbor and probably out into the garden, and there’s probably shockwaves in the _pool_ , and Peter can’t help it, he _yelps_.

Everyone laughs harder, and it’s contagious- he’s breathless and chuckling, too, even as his hands fly back to rub the sudden smart away. Steve holds him there a second more before tipping him upright and smiling at Peter, steadying him with two hands on his coat sleeves. “You got yourself, there, Angel?” he asks, teasing gently. “It was just one single spank, right?”

“I better grow a foot,” grumbles Peter, to the delight of everyone in the arbor, who howl with laughter.

Steve taps his nose and says under the laughter, “Nah, not a foot. Wouldn’t want you to change too much, Angel.”

Peter looks up at him and wishes they were standing in Steve’s rooms, or in _his_ , where he could _do_ something to say thanks. Instead, he whispers, “Thanks, Steve.” 

“ _And_ he thanked him,” laughs Clint, wiping his eyes. “Harley, you met your match, there’s Angel _thanking_ him for the wallop!”

“Catch me thanking _anybody_ ,” chuckles Harley, “even for a _birthday_ one.”

“No, probably have to wrestle you down again,” agrees Bucky, and Peter turns to watch them glower at each other.

“Well,” sighs Pepper, shifting out of Clint’s arms to look around brightly as Steve puts his foot back down. “Have we satisfied all of the traditions? Anyone have anything else?”

Everyone shakes their heads, smiling and tired.

Peter swallows and says thickly, “I- th-thank you. Thank you, all of you, so, well, so _much_.”

“Aww, Angel, you’re worth it,” Harley says, a teasing light in his eyes, but there’s something else there, too, and _everybody else nods._

“I’ll go take the birthday boy up, get him ready for bed,” declares Steve quietly, with a nod to Pepper. “Say goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, Peter,” snorts Peter. Everyone groans, but he notices Tony is sitting so still, suddenly, still and stiff, in Natasha’s arms. He can’t actually look at the man, can’t force himself to look at that handsome face and see- whatever might be there, so instead he turns and lets Steve push him towards the house.

“Happy Birthday, Angel,” shouts Harley, and the rest of the voices call it in ragged chorus after him.

The rest of the voices, except one.


	6. The Orange Lick of Flame

Steve guides him up the stairs, and when did Peter’s feet get so heavy, his head so hard to hold up? He tugs Peter down the hallway, and opens the door to Peter’s room with a careful hand. “C’mon, Angel,” he coaxes softly. “You feeling okay?”

Peter nods and then bites his lip and says, in a horrible choked voice, “It’s just, I never had a day like this, Steve, that’s all, I just-”

“Yeah, a little overwhelming, to realize, ain’t it? How close people pay attention to you, how well they know you, and what you’d want, if you could have anything?” says Steve lowly, pulling Peter with him through the suite, into the bathroom. “Had a birthday a few years back, when it hit me like that, how much it means to _be a Stark_ , you know?”

Steve _understands_ , Peter realizes, and so yeah, he lets the tears fall a little. Steve lets him sniffle a bit, while he gets the bath set up, Harley’s blue bathtub, because that’s Harley’s favorite color. And he grabs Peter’s favorite soap, and the monogrammed blue towel with P and S all twined up in each other, and Peter gulps, scrubbing at his face. 

“Yeah, it can hit like that, all a sudden,” says Steve lowly, soothing. “You’re okay, here, Angel. I gotcha.”

Peter nods, gulping and scrubbing some more, until Steve stands and shifts closer, easing Peter’s coat off. “C’mon, Angel,” says Steve in that same soothing tone, “let’s get you ready, huh? Feel a little like one of ‘Tasha’s Baba Yagas, getting you ready for a wedding or something.”

“That’s a yenta,” corrects Peter. “Baba Yaga’s the witch with the house on chicken feet.”

“Ah. A yenta, then,” says Steve, with humor in his voice and light in his eyes, tugging at Peter’s belt and starting on the buttons just as fast.

Peter thinks over the talk they’d had and puts his hands on Steve’s, to tell the man, “You’re not, Steve. I’m- you’re helping, you’re a part of it, though, too.”

“Not tonight,” says Steve, his voice gone a little husky.

“Tomorrow, though,” offers Peter, looking up, his heart hammering.

Steve’s lips twitch and he says, “Well, you get through tonight, we can talk about _tomorrow_ , Angel. Wait and see if you’re up for it.”

Peter thinks about what he knows, about everything Harley’s said and taught him, about everything Steve’s done with and for him, about Tony at midnight, his hands so hot against Peter’s skin. “I will be,” he tells Steve seriously.

Steve swallows and then huffs a short laugh. “Yeah, okay, Angel. I believe you.” He drops Peter’s pants, then, and Peter pushes down his drawers, standing there in the thick shirt he’d worn on the plane, and shivering just a little, despite the summer warmth of the room. 

The bathtub behind them steams, just a little, and Steve’s fingers make quick work of the buttons down the front of Peter’s shirt. Peter stands there as Steve strips the last of the clothes off him, and stares at the man’s face, trying to figure out what to say next, what do you _say next_ to this man, who guards him and guides him, who ain’t perfect, but who’s always _there_ , and who promises to chase Peter so that’ll always be true, that he’s always _there_.

What can Peter say to him, to stop this deep ache between them, like a wound?

Peter can’t think of anything, so he slips into the bathtub when Steve steps away, to go get the soap he left by the sink, and a washrag.

When Steve comes back, Peter still hasn’t thought of anything to _say_ , so instead he kneels up in the water, making it slosh against the edge. Steve cocks an eyebrow at him, freezing, and they both watch Peter’s hand a little breathlessly, Peter suspects, as it reaches for Steve’s tie, and tugs the man down with it. He presses a kiss to Steve’s lips, firm and confident, and smiles when Steve smiles into the kiss.

And then Steve kisses him back, and Peter feels that same impossible glow from the plane again, because this isn’t right, this isn’t- he shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want these men to kiss him, shouldn’t glow when they do. 

But he does. He lets them, he _asks_ for it, now. He _wants_ this.

Eventually, Steve pulls back and rubs at his lips, smiling a small smile that Peter recognizes as well as he knows his own in the mirror, these days. “You been saving that up, Angel, just to dish it out _now_ , when I gotta turn you over to the Boss?”

“Yeah,” breathes Peter, his skin feeling tight and stretched. “Yeah, it’s my birthday, Stevie.”

Steve chokes a laugh and mutters, “Takin’ too many pages from Harley’s book, these days, Angel.”

Peter looks up at him from under his lashes, as Steve dips the rag into the water and lathers it. “Maybe,” he concedes, a smile stretching his lips. 

“Yeah, no _maybe_ about it, Angel,” chuckles Steve. “You got bedroom eyes on, you know that?”

Peter snorts, shifting back in the water and tossing his head. Steve chuckles again and says, “Yeah, maybe you didn’t know what they were called, but you sure know how to use ‘em. Gimme that paw, there, let me scrub ya down.”

Steve works in near silence, and the sound of Peter’s shattered breathing is the only sound for a long time. Steve shifts him, mostly, to get where he wants to, his artist fingers sliding through Peter’s hair, first with an ewer of water and then with soap. He scrubs, chasing all of the day’s travel dirt and dust, the sticky remains of fruit and syrup and ice cream, the faint glisten of sweat. Peter goes where Steve bends him, lets him move and twist Peter’s limbs like a doll, turning him this way and that in the warm water. 

“Here, climb out, we’ll do a cool one. It’ll stop that sweating, get you comfortable,” offers Steve.

“You missed a spot,” breathes Peter, before biting his lip and glancing up, his cheeks flaming with _what he wants_ from Steve, now.

Steve’s eyes snap up to Peter’s and he sighs, nodding, soaping up the rag again with steady hands. “Yeah, okay, Angel, you’re testing my self-control, but yeah. Okay.” He puts a single finger under Peter’s chin and presses up, a teasing smile playful on his lips. “Not doing all the work, not for _that_ , Peter, not when I ain’t gonna reap any benefit.”

Peter follows the finger, rising up with a huge slosh of water around his knees. Steve considers him, standing there with his head tilted back, throat bared, his eyes looking all over Peter’s body, missing _nothing_. “Helluva time not to have my paper handy,” he mutters. “Although I’d do this one in oil, try and capture all those beads of water slidin’ down. Just _perfect_ , Angel.”

His hand darts forward then, quick but gentle, and scrubs the rest of it, front and back, pushing in just enough for Peter to rise on his toes and gasp while Steve laughs, and scrubbing his length down with a few pumps that have Peter groaning. “You asked for it,” Steve scolds him, as Peter sputters and turns red. 

“I did,” gasps Peter, and then grabs for Steve’s tie, as the man leans over to pull the plug. “I did, Steve,” he says, as Steve freezes again, and looks up at Peter wordlessly. “I did, I do,” he stammers, tugging, just a little, hoping Steve’ll give, again, and let Peter have- let Peter have what he wants. “I do, Steve,” he repeats.

“Do you,” murmurs Steve, giving in and following the tug of the tie, following Peter’s hand up, up, until his lips are right there, and Peter can drop the tie to trace Steve’s jaw and say, hotly, “Yes, Captain, my Captain,” eyes flickering to Steve’s face.

Steve groans, then, and leans towards Peter, dropping the wash rag to clutch at Peter’s shoulders, pull him in tightly. He kisses Peter like a drowning man, like a starving man, like a _man who has needs_ , and Peter shivers in his grip.

Steve gasps, though, and steps back, one hand coming up to his mouth. “That,” he says sternly, “was not nice, Angel.”

“Sorry, Steve,” whispers Peter, looking at him, feeling the water trail down his back and legs in little rivulets.

“Yeah, you’re about as sorry as Hellcat ever is,” snaps Steve, plugging the empty tub back up again and turning the water on viciously.

Cold hits Peter’s feet, and then not-so-cold laps at his ankles. “S-sorry, Steve,” he says, as Steve glares at him and says, “Sit. Down.”

Peter folds, hitting the bottom of the tub and looking up, now, looking up at Steve. Steve fills the ewer and scowls at Peter. “You’re riding high from today, I can tell, but be careful how you play, _boy_ , because we’re all _men_ here, Angel. We’re all _men_ , and if you stir up too much, well-”

“ _My_ men,” whispers Peter, feeling the truth of it glide across his skin, wondering if this is why Harley is the way he is, this feeling. 

Steve pauses, then, and crouches lower, leaning on the lip of the tub as the water fills it, holding the heavy ewer in one hand casually. “Yeah, Angel,” he says cautiously, a moment later. “Your men. So don’t be _rough_ with us. Don’t be _mean_. I’ll still be yours, tomorrow, so _tonight_ , don’t be mean.”

Peter feels a flush of shame and nods his head slowly. “Yeah, Steve, I’m- I’m-” he’s not sorry, though.

“Yeah, I get it,” sighs Steve. “Just _stop playing_ ,” he orders, before his lips quirk and he says, “Here, I’ll give you a little reminder,” and dumps the ewer over Peter’s head, making him squawk and bat at Steve’s arm.

Peter splutters and glares up at Steve, who smiles down at him, filling the ewer again and saying, “Cooled off a little? Good. Gonna be a hot night for you, should start out comfortably cool.” He upends the next ewerful on Peter’s head as well, _the bastard._

After brushing his hair out of his eyes, Peter glowers a bit at Steve, who smiles sunnily and says, “Don’t pout, Angel, you’re not getting neglected and I ain’t saying don’t _ever_ play with me that way. I’m just saying, not _tonight_.”

Peter considers this and decides on a nod in response. Steve sighs, splashing his hand in the water that’s up to Peter’s waist now. “Boss hasn’t had more than a beakful, I been watching him, we all been,” he says slowly. “So I don’t- he’ll take good care of you. But if- if he _don’t_ , Peter, you, you come _get_ me, okay?”

Peter thinks of Tony’s eyes, hot and possessive on his skin, his hands, greedy and gentle, the way he kisses at midnight when he’s had more than a beakful, sloppy and sweet, whispering, _Who am I?_ into Peter’s ear in a voice just as heated and possessive and greedy and gentle as his eyes and his hands. He nods and reassures Steve, “But I won’t need to.”

“No,” agrees Steve, his eyes serious and dark. “You won’t. But if you _do_.”

“I will, then, sir,” promises Peter.

“‘S all I ask,” says Steve, turning off the water. Peter sits in the chilled water, looking at Steve, who does nothing but look back at him, until he begins to shiver, and Steve smiles. “Well, I guess that’s cooled down enough, Angel. C’mon, I’ll rub you down.”

The towel feels like heaven, rough against his skin, and Peter laughs when Steve pulls a pair of bright red pajama bottoms off the chair. The satin glides across his skin, making him shiver again, for a different reason. “Ain’t these _Clint’s?_ ” he laughs, feeling ridiculous while Steve ties the bow, letting them fall, loose, to Peter’s hips.

“No,” says Steve lowly, finger trailing along the line they make, low across Peter’s stomach. He looks up at Peter and says quietly, “They’re Tony’s.”

_But-_

_Oh._

Steve nods, and there’s a sound at the door.

“You got him scrubbed?” snorts Tony, sauntering in. “You happy with him, yet?”

“Yeah, he’ll do,” says Steve, stepping back from Peter to stand, shoulder to shoulder with Tony. The men contemplate Peter, standing there in pajama pants that are way too big for him, hair dripping just a little, shivery cold droplets that slide down his back.

“Come get him for breakfast, in the morning,” orders Tony, nodding. “Bring his coffee, the way he likes it.”

“Will do, Boss,” says Steve, and then, with one last hot look that Peter can’t read, he fades back, and Tony steps forward, holding out a hand.

“C’mere, son,” Tony says firmly. “Let me get a good look.”

There’s a faint click of the suite door closing, and Peter gives an involuntary shiver. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, Peter,” Tony promises lowly, brushing the hair off of Peter’s forehead. “Far from it, if you let me.”

Peter can feel the fires start licking again, already, just standing this close to the sheik. Tony’s still dressed and pressed in his flashbang suit, and while there’s some stubble, now, on the underside of his chin, he looks ready to prowl, ready for a night on the town, not, not a night here, in Harley’s brass bed. 

Peter lifts his chin at that last, thinking firmly, _in_ **_my_ ** _brass bed._

“Well, well, son, you made it to eighteen. You had a good day?” asks Tony, reaching out and rubbing up and down Peter’s bare arms, half like he’s reassuring Peter, half like he can’t keep his hands off.

“The best day. Exactly what I wanted,” says Peter eagerly, feeling the fire trail behind the path of Tony’s hands. 

“Exactly what you wanted,” repeats Tony musingly. His eyes, dark and thoughtful, meet Peter’s. “That’s good to hear. And now, now you’re ready to give me exactly what I want?”

Peter’s mouth goes dry and he nods, once, his heart beating so fast it’ll bust out of his chest.

“Only, Peter,” says Tony slowly, one hand rising to trace circles on Peter’s chest, before trailing down to draw them just above the line of his waistband, too, “there’s no actual going back, once you give it to me. Harley’ll be expecting things, next, and from the way Steve was looking at you, he’ll be wanti-”

“Yes, Tony,” interrupts Peter, panting a little. He presses forward, into Tony’s space. “I _want_. Too.”

“Oh,” sighs Tony, shaking his head a little, chuckling to himself. “Oh, I knew it, I knew it that first hour,” he muses. “Never had an Angel before, but I knew it, when you sat yourself on my knee. Knew you’d want it, want this. Knew you’d give it to me.” His eyes blaze into Peter’s and Peter presses closer towards that warmth, closer yet, a bare inch between them, now, and Tony’s hands on his hips, dipping just below the waistband, confident and assured.

“You’re wearing Clint’s pants,” he says huskily, almost against Peter’s upturned lips.

“I heard they were _yours_ ,” Peter replies quietly, eyes searching Tony’s face.

“Oh,” says Tony, eyes blazing, on another chuckle, “Oh you sweet, sweet innocent Angel. _Everything here is mine_ ,” he growls, pulling Peter to him and taking Peter’s mouth in a kiss.

It’s hot, hot as the birthday candle’s flame, licking across Peter’s skin, sweet gentle burns at every stroke of Tony’s hand down his side. God, he _wants_ , Peter _wants_ , he’s nothing but this, this thing made of flames and _need_. He’s burning, as sure as his candle burned, burning up and burning out and-

Tony releases him with a gasp, and Peter pants up at him, shocked that they’re in the room, now, that they’re in the room and beside the bed, and Tony’s hands are still tucked under the waistband of his pants, on either side. Tony tilts his head and smirks, and says lowly, “Well, baby, turns out I can put a leash on you and drag you anywhere I want you to go, just by kissin’, what do you think of that?”

Peter pants up at him, brain fuddled with heat.

“Yeah, just the way I like ‘em,” smiles Tony. “God, son, you’re just about everything I want right now, you know that? Can only do this once, and you’re about perfect, you know that?”

Peter shakes his head and whispers, “Tony.”

“No,” chides Tony, his eyes darkening, just a hint, hands gripping Peter’s hips just a touch harder, shaking them. “No, say it right, baby boy.”

Peter feels the blush glide up his skin, one more kind of flame, and looks up into Tony’s teasing smile and whispers, “D-daddy.”

“Yeah, is that who I am, baby?” asks Tony, pulling Peter’s hips to his firmly, rubbing himself against Peter just a bit, making Peter gasp at all of the sensations as the satin glides against his dick, Tony’s own length pressing hard to one side. “You like that?” he chuckles, repeating, “You like that, Angel?” as Peter gasps again.

“Oh, birthday boy,” he snorts, sliding a hand down to rub the satin over and over, “ain’t you cut right out of the same cloth as him? You and Clint both, loving the soft, sweet, slippery things.”

Peter tosses his head, because, because he didn’t _know_ that about Mr. Barton, he didn’t, and now that he does, he can’t get the image out of his mind, of Tony, of Tony and Clint, and red satin. It makes him even dizzier, the image, and he chases it with his eyes closed, as Tony rubs him, chuckling. “Oh, I see how you like it,” teases Tony, pulling his hand back and making Peter groan in disappointment. “But here, baby, Daddy’s still all dressed up. Let me shuck some layers, and then I’ll take care of you, huh?”

Peter bites his lip, opening his eyes, and then nods. 

“Hitting all the sweetest sins, ain’tcha, Angelbaby,” chuckles Tony, hands flying to his tie, unpinning it and dropping the tie pin to the side table- _Harley’s_ side table. He starts to undo his cufflinks and says, “You go on ahead and keep rubbing, baby, Daddy’ll be right with you. Gimme a minute, here.”

Peter blushes, but when Tony shoots him a dark gaze, his hands tentatively shift to the front of his pants, avoiding the small wet spot to rub, softly, soothingly.

“There’s my boy,” says Tony, eyes flashing. “Go on. Feels good, right?”

Peter bites his lip and nods. _It does_.

“I just bet,” sighs Tony, unbuttoning the vest and letting it fall to the floor. “I just bet it does.”

Peter mutters something, and Tony makes a noise of inquiry. Peter blushes, and then gasps, “Feels- feels better when you do it.”

There’s a pause then, as Tony breathes deeply, and then he slides his suspenders down in a smooth motion, and pops the belt buckle just as quickly, sliding the pants down to tangle with the vest on the floor. “I- I just bet it does,” he says roughly. “I just bet you like it best when it’s a man’s hand there, huh, baby? I just bet you feel a man rubbing you, and you can’t hold still, can’t stop yourself, can you, huh, baby?”

Peter’s breath hitches, and he half-sobs, “I l-like it, when- when you-”

“You do,” agrees Tony. “You were made to like it, I told you. I could tell that first hour, that Harley picked the right one, in the whole of the city, the right Angel for me. Ain’t seen anything like you ever, baby, not once. Knew I’d want to keep you then, plan on keeping you now. You’re mine, Angel, and you always will be, now.”

Peter nods helplessly, and Tony growls, “Fucking buttons, slowing me down.” His hands are flying though, Peter watches them, because he can’t unbutton a shirt as fast as Tony’s quick hands are flying, he can’t, he’s tried. Tony just flicks his wrist and they pop open like magic, and Peter is panting again, he realizes, panting, and rubbing, straining, arching towards Tony, wanting- _needing._

“Shhh, shhh, I’ll give you everything you ever need,” Tony promises him, ripping the shirt off and tearing off the undershirt, bending slightly to unsnap the garters at his knees. “Just hold on, baby, I’m coming, I’ll get there.”

Peter nods, because he can see Tony racing, can see how much Tony’s racing, too. 

“Lay down,” orders Tony. “Right there, on the bed, throw back them covers and lay down.”

Peter hesitates, and then grabs for the covers, throwing them over the foot of the bed. He eyes Tony, fingers twitching on the waistband of his pants, but Tony hadn’t said to take ‘em off, so he falls onto the bed, crosswise, the back of his legs against the mattress, and props himself up on one elbow to watch Tony.

“Good Angel, just the way I want you,” croons Tony, sliding his rings off to clatter on the side table, and then he’s there, surging up over Peter, dipping his head down to kiss Peter’s lips, his weight shaking the mattress as he moves. “Just,” he gasps into the kiss, “just the way I want you, tonight. Sweet innocent Angelbaby.”

Peter gives another half sob, thrusting up against Tony, and somehow it’s worse, now, worse to feel nothing but flesh and the satin between them, sliding and gliding. “Ohh, you like that, I knew you would, Angel, that satin’s as soft and slippery as an angel’s wing, knew you’d like it,” mutters Tony into his ear, thrusting his hips down against Peter’s to glide the satin against both of their skin. “God, baby, gonna make you feel good so you’re nice and easy for me, so I can get what I want, after all this waiting. You gonna give me what I want, baby?”

Peter grunts, “Yes, Daddy,” because he can predict how Tony’s breathing shatters and how he grunts, thrusting just a bit harder, giving _Peter_ what _Peter_ wants.

“Yeah, you will, innocent Angel,” sighs Tony, and then he’s done talking, and he takes Peter’s mouth in a possessive kiss, hands sliding up underneath Peter’s shoulder blades and hips thrusting, gliding the satin fabric across and down Peter’s length until Peter’s ready to shout, ready for _something, something-_

Tony draws back, suddenly, and smirks down at Peter. “You know, I’m reminded of something,” he gasps. “Something I do for Harley, makes him behave for me, for a whole month after, he’ll behave for me, do whatever I want, so I don’t do it all the time, see?”

Peter can’t _think_ , he’s aching so hard, but he nods.

“Yeah, you’ll give me whatever, but it’s your birthday, Angel, so I’m going to keep doing some giving, too,” Tony tells him, smirking again. He tugs the bow of Peter’s pants, loosening them, and they’re so big he can just pull the fabric right down. Peter’s dick jerks upright, eagerly, into the air. Peter groans and Tony chuckles. “Yeah, it’s your birthday, Angel, so pay attention. And then you remember it, and you give me good behavior, whatever I ask for, you got it? Is it a deal?”

Peter nods, a little mystified but willing. Tony slides down a bit, and then he opens his mouth and _oh God oh God_ , Peter wasn’t _ready_.

Tony’s mouth is warm, and wet, and he’s moving, and so there’s friction, and it’s exactly what Peter said to Steve, the day before, it’s _exactly_ what his dick likes, so _happy birthday, pecker,_ thinks Peter in a daze, struggling underneath the warring needs to thrust up and the Harley-assured knowledge that right now is exactly when he should hold still.

Tony chuckles, the vibration of his lips making Peter arch up, shouting, and Peter realizes he’s been sobbing, a gasping litany of “Please, please, Tony, Daddy, please, please.” 

Peter gasps again into the silence after his shout.

Tony pulls off with a wet pop and smirks up at him. “Yeah, I figured. But you’re my baby, and it’s your birthday, and baby, you’re gonna want exactly everything I give you, ain’t you?”

Peter nods weakly, brushing at the tear tracks with the back of his hand.

“Good baby, hold still, now,” laughs Tony, and then he _does it again_.

Peter groans and moans, tossing his head, trying his best not to thrust up, not to- to be still and quiet, like Bucky always says, to just- a whine slips out as his balls jump and Tony laughs, suddenly pulling and shoving at Peter, twisting him around onto his knees. 

“Want you ready, for the next thing,” he grunts, as if that’s any explanation, and then his hands wrap around Peter’s dick again, wet with _Tony’s spit_ , and Peter whines again. Tony tugs until Peter’s spilling, shameful and needy, underneath him, a long rope of it, he feels it drip onto the bedsheets with shock.

And then, for a long moment, there’s nothing but Peter’s panting and Tony’s chuckles. “Good baby, just the way I want you,” praises Tony, pressing kisses into Peter’s back. “Gone all boneless, couldn’t be more perfect. Just what I want. Hold there, just relax like that.”

There’s noises behind Peter, but he presses his forehead to the cool sheets and can’t think or feel anything, drawing breath slowly, now, slow and deep.

Tony’s hand comes back again, and he says, “Okay, this might- God, I promise it’ll feel good, baby, just, just let me, okay?” and then a single finger presses and rubs, right where Steve had, yesterday, and Peter remember what Steve said, about relaxing, tries to remember how good it had felt, how the sparks had felt so _good_. Tony’s finger slides in with the same pop Steve’s had created, and Peter shifts back, trying to speed the finger to the spot, the spot where- it’s just a little deeper, he knows it, the spot that feels _so good_.

“God, baby, you- I-” and Tony laughs, like he can’t believe something, “are you pushing back?”

Peter blushes, and then pants, and then admits it with a nod. 

“Good Angel,” breathes Tony, sounding awed, now. “Didn’t ever guess, but, well, I knew it, I knew you were something special.” His finger hits the spot, the crackle and spark and heat and flame exploding inside Peter, and Peter whimpers. 

“Yeah, lemme hear it,” whispers Tony, kissing Peter’s back and pressing another finger in, sliding them in together, making Peter hiss until they hit that warmth, that spot, and he melts again. 

“God, baby,” mutters Tony, kissing his back a little frantically, “you do this like- like you were made for it, baby, you take it like, _fuck_ , baby boy. I want in, want to hear you when I’m in, when- Christ, even _Harley_ never- well, but then, I- Angel, baby, can you take more?” His voice is stretching tight, now, Peter marvels, because what does _Tony_ have to be tense about, here, in this bed, right now?

Peter nods, and breathes, and gasps when Tony presses in again, gasps to feel the stretch and the burn, and then the spark, the crackle that slides up his spine and across his vision, leaving burning waves of _need_ and _want_ in its wake. “Baby,” whispers Tony. “Christ, you take this- c’mon, show me, keep takin’ it.”

Peter nods and Tony gasps, kissing his back again, declaring, “Gonna feel that stretch, Peter, you just- you feel good, stay right there, feel, feel _good_.”

Peter isn’t anything _but_ good feeling right now, good feeling and hot, so hot, so needy, he wants- wants- “More,” he croaks, and then, when Tony gasps, “More, Tony, please, can I- can you-”

“Yes,” hisses Tony. “Yes, I can, baby, just- just wait, gotta-”

“No,” argues Peter, “no, more, now, please, Tony, please, God, gimme-”

“Fuck,” declares Tony. “You asked, you remember that-”

Peter nods. He will. He _will_. 

Tony pushes him forward on the bed, and kneels up on it himself, legs inside Peter’s own. “Angel,” he moans, as Peter presses back against his hand, chasing that _feeling_ , that _burn_. The fingers slide out, making Peter moan in disappointment, but there’s something back a second later, pressing in, slowly, feeling like flesh. Peter’s eyes widen as he realizes it’s _now_. Oh, god, _it’s now_ , Tony’s- he’s- “Daddy,” gasps Peter, “thank you,” because he’s brainless but those words go together, in this bed, with this man.

“Whatdidyousay,” grunts Tony, sounding shocked. “Shit, baby, what did you-”

“Thank you,” gasps Peter again, enjoying the effect on the other man, enjoying that as much as Tony can take him apart, make him only this thing that _needs_ and _wants_ , he can do something to the other man, the most powerful man in the world, with just those three words.

“Ssay it,” hisses Tony, pressing his- his pecker, thinks Peter, shocked again, although, although he _knew that_ \- pressing his pecker inside Peter, stretching him on it, splitting him on it, and rubbing, rubbing right where Peter wants it most, right where he-

“Thank you,” gasps Peter, and gulps, to gasp again, “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Jesus Christ,” swear Tony, and then he pulls back, the friction making Peter bite at the sheets on the bed, his hands and knees digging in to push back, to follow the movement. “No, no, baby,” coaxes Tony, gasping. A heavy hand presses on Peter’s shoulders. “You just, you don’t gotta do anything, I got you. I- just-” Peter follows the pressure of the hand until his chest is pressed back down to the sheets. 

Tony gasps above him for a second, before swearing, “Jesus Christ, give me strength” again.

“If fucking an Angel is always like this, I fucking understand the men of Soddom, all of a sudden,” growls Tony, and then he slides back in, smooth and sweet, making Peter breathe, “Thank you, Daddy,” brainlessly.

“Jesus, Angel,” hisses Tony, and then he _rocks_ into Peter, and Peter gasps, “Thank you.”

It becomes a litany, Tony’s heaven sent prayers and hisses, and Peter’s gasps and gratitude. The bed shakes, and Peter shakes, and it’s only later that Peter realizes the hand grasping his hip had been shaking, too. 

Tony slides, in and out, and Peter’s eyes roll and he presses back, whining, until Tony huffs in amazement and says, “You gonna _spill_ , Angel?”

“Ngh,” groans Peter, because, because he _might_ , he’s never felt so good, never felt this shake and shiver and pull and pleasure, racing up and down his spine, to the tip of every finger and toe.

“It’s your birthday, baby boy, you get everything, everything you want, even- even when I’m taking what I want,” gasps Tony, his hand clenching harder, the thrusts coming fiercer, now, now that Peter’s moaning with every thrust, moaning and pushing back, shifting to get more, _deeper_ , gasping now, “Please, Tony, Daddy, please, please, yours, please, everything.”

“Mine,” agrees Tony with gravel is his voice, his fingertips digging in. “Yeah, I like that. _Mine_ , baby, _mine_ , and I’ll take what’s _mine_ , now, and you can- you can spill, if you can.”

Peter nods, gasping, sweat coursing down his sides and where his thighs touch Tony’s, where Tony’s hand brands into the flesh of his back. He’s burning up, enflamed, and no one’s going to be able to blow hard enough to blow him off, at this point, he’s going to burn up with this, a fever only getting hotter, higher- a bonfire here, in this bed with Tony.

“Shhhh,” soothes Tony, but his pace goes faster, “Just-just stay with me, baby, I got you, I do, shh.”

Peter realizes he’s crying, sobbing with every pull of Tony out, leaving him empty, leaving him alone, with _needs_ , and he gasps, “Please, please, Tony, _more_.”

“Jesus Christ,” hisses Tony, and then he gives _more_ , thrusting harder, filling Peter with every snap of his hips, filling him, shaking his frame, until his hips stutter and he groans, and Peter feels a spurt, like the flutter of a bird’s wings, deep _inside_ him. Peter gasps, hand flying to pull at himself because, because, because-

“Ahh,” gasps Peter, spilling into his hand, and Tony huffs a laugh at the end of another groan.

There’s a moment where neither one of them move, both heaving deep breaths, their skin stuck together at every point of contact and connection. And then Tony shifts, a smile in his voice as he says, “Angel, and I mean this in the _best_ possible way, but you are one _hell_ of a first-timer, you know that? I’ve had plenty of _pros_ who- well-” Tony laughs, and the bed dips as he pulls out, collapsing beside Peter and pulling Peter half-on-top of him. He lifts Peter’s chin and kisses him gently, saying, “Well, they weren’t _that_.”

There’s silence then, because Peter can’t think of anything to say, until Tony grunts, “Now I’m mad at Harley for that stupid bet, coulda been having that all along. Gonna go find him and have some words.”

Peter rubs his cheek on Tony’s sweaty chest and says contentedly, “No, you’re not. Bucky’s having words with him, and you’re staying _right here_.”

Tony sighs, and shifts his hips closer to Peter, despite the heat, sliding a leg under Peter’s leg, and says, “Yeah, I’m staying right here, Angel.”

He kisses the top of Peter’s head, and Peter’s never been so grateful to the fan on the ceiling and the fans blowing on the side tables, for chilling the sweat from his body, because Tony is a _furnace_ of heat and he’s sticky.

~~~

Hours later, he’s still sticky, but he’s shocked, waking up to Tony already pressing a finger into him. “Sorry, Angel, I _had_ to-” mutters Tony against Peter’s bare shoulder. “Had to just- you’re not too sore, are you? Just let me-”

Peter groans into the pillow, hot and sticky, but within seconds he’s gasping and moaning, as Tony kisses his shoulder and his finger does the trick again. “Yeah, just like that for me, baby,” mutters Tony into his skin, sounding feverish. “Had to- you were so- just let me, baby.”

Peter gasps and presses back into Tony’s hand, a single buck, and Tony whispers, like he’s a marvel, like he’s wondrous, “Jesus _Christ_ , Angel.”

“L-language, Daddy,” gasps Peter, and there’s nothing better than the feel of Tony’s kisses as he laughs against Peter’s skin.

“Fuck, Angel, you’re going to _kill_ me here,” Tony gasps.

“But what a death,” agrees Peter, pressing back again.

Tony’s laughter feels even better with two fingers stretching him open.

And even better than that, mumbled into Peter’s shoulder while his dick digs deep inside, chasing their pleasure and delighted at Peter’s every sassy comeback.

“Christ, Angel,” gasps Tony, laughing and breathing hard, thrusting forward, hand scrabbling at Peter’s hip, other hand wrapped under Peter’s arm so Peter’s head rests on his forearm. Peter rocks his head against that forearm and moans, loving the feel of pressure and stretch and spark and crackle and- and- “you spill, if you can,” gasps Tony. “Fuck, I bet you can do it, you spill.”

“Tryin’,” grunts Peter, arching his back, “try, try goin’ _harder_ , Daddy.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , baby boy,” gasps Tony.

Peter smiles, hidden from Tony by the night and the angle.

Phil did say Peter was the fastest student he’d ever had.

~~~

In the morning, there’s a cough, and Peter’s eyes flutter as he climbs to awareness again. He feels Tony startle, too, beside him. “Wha’ the hell?” mutters Tony, blearily, lifting his head from the pillow.

“Morning,” says Steve’s deep voice, amused. He settles something on the coffee table and stands up, walking to the bed. Peter lets his eyes drift shut again, pressing back into Tony’s warmth and wishing one of them had thought about how the nights get cooler, now, and maybe had thrown a sheet over them. 

“Shit, Captain,” complains Tony, shaking his head and running his foot up and down Peter’s leg. “I didn’t mean come in at the crack of dawn.”

“Far past that,” chuckles Steve. “Pepper sent the cart back downstairs, but I snagged you a couple’a plates. Got Peter’s coffee, too,” he says, and Peter can _hear_ the snicker in his voice.

“Hey, you still do those drawings?” asks Tony.

Peter’s heart gives an extra beat and settles back down. Whatever Tony wants, it’s too _early_.

“Yeah, some,” sighs Steve.

“Well, go grab your stuff, want this one,” sighs Tony, nuzzling the back of Peter’s neck.

“Okay, Boss,” chuckles Steve. “Don’t wake him up too much, then.”

“Well, he wakes up more, you can draw that, too,” says Tony magnanimously.

“Sure, Boss,” agrees Steve, and there’s the near-silent sound of his footsteps on the thick carpet, and the soft shush of the door opening and closing again, the click almost inaudible in the way that only Steve seems to be able to do.

“Mm,” hums Tony, burrowing forward into Peter a little more, wrapping him tighter with his legs and arm, his dick thick and hard against the swell of Peter’s butt. “Go on back to sleep, Angel. Whatever he picked out for us to chew down, it’ll keep.”

Sure, thinks Peter blearily. “Sound’s good, Tony,” he mumbles.

Tony kisses the back of his neck, and that’s all Peter remembers until he wakes up later, Harley tapping him on the shoulder and hissing, “Hey, Angel, coffee’s cold, sent Bucky to go get more, but you gotta get up, Pepper’s in a tizzy about the thank you notes you gotta write.”

“You tell him I won’t _host_ parties if he won’t get the notes out the _next day_ ,” calls Pepper’s voice from somewhere far off.

“She says-” starts Harley, but Peter opens his eyes and groans, “I _heard_ her, Harley. Go write ‘em for me,” he suggests, closing his eyes again.

There’s a pause and then Harley says, quietly, “I would, Peter, but my hand’s not nearly as-”

Peter lifts himself out of the pillow to stare into Harley’s serious face, one eye blackened from his fight with Johnny the previous night. “Harley, I wasn’t _serious_ ,” he protests incredulously.

Harley blows out a breath, his hand sliding down Peter’s bare back. “Only, Peter, I _would_ , I really _would,”_ he says urgently. “I’d do about anything- Tony says you- he says-”

“Oh my G- goodness,” hisses Peter, sitting up abruptly, cheeks hot. “Are you- are you trying to _bribe me,_ Harley Stark? For _that?”_

Harley smirks up at him and says, “Sure am. Is it working?”

Peter frowns down at him and then says bluntly, “Try it again later, with coffee.”

“Sure, brother,” says Harley, standing from his crouch. “He’s up, Pep!” he shouts, winking down at Peter and murmuring, “All _kinds_ of up, baby brother,” his eyebrows flying.

“Stop that,” hisses Peter. “It just _does that_ , so does _yours_ , every morning.”

“Want help with it?” asks Harley innocently, eyebrow quirking.

Peter hesitates, and in that moment, Harley leaps towards the open door to Pepper’s bathroom. “Be just a minute,” he shouts through it. “Gotta get him up and dressed, and he’s moving slow.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Peter hears, as Harley shuts the door.

“Here, I’ll scratch your itch, and you can go write them cards, and then, maybe- maybe later, you can, uh, scratch something for me,” says Harley hopefully.

Peter blows out a breath, but something inside him is laughing, the same something that sassed Tony last night and ignored Steve this morning. “Maybe,” he says, because it can’t hurt Harley to string him along a little, can it?   
  
He already knows he’s going to give in.

Besides, Harley _likes_ it.

Peter pulls Harley’s hair just a little, while he’s going at it, because, well, Harley likes _that_ , too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Well, that took entirely too long. Sorry about that, gang.
> 
> I've got a bunch in store yet for these characters and this AU, but hopefully you've enjoyed it so far.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jbX29dHZLHc
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress but I have to follow my muses, so be aware this isn't an offer to WRITE those scenes for you. I just am open to hear about your ideas.
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I am looking for new stories/authors to read. If you want to make it feel like MY birthday, you could take this opportunity to throw me some links to your faves! Anything well written works for me (it doesn't HAVE to be filthy, but filthy's fine, I'm fine with filthy. LOOK AT WHAT I WRITE, I'm fine with filthy)!


End file.
